The Lost Boy
by S. Faith
Summary: Daniel's story; even the devil deserves a little sympathy. Movie universe. Rated for language and adult situations.
1. Chapter 1

**The Lost Boy**  
Part 1 of 4

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 28,821 (Part 1: 6,203)  
Rating: M / R (Language / adult situations)  
Summary: Even the devil deserves a little sympathy.  
Disclaimer: Isn't mine. I made up a lot of it, though.  
Notes: This got very long. I hope you all stick with it through to the end. And I hope all of the italics aren't too annoying.

* * *

SHARON: Yes, he's also a dysfunctional, fucked-up, middle-aged lost boy.  
BRIDGET: Well, no one's perfect.

—From _Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason_

* * *

_Part 1_

_"Do you love me?"_

_The question was one he never expected to hear his mother to ask. Of course Dad loved Mum, even though he was away a lot. That was what husbands did. Loved their wives._

_The voice that responded was deeper than his dad's. "I love this." Short silence. "And this." His mother made a soft sigh before there was another silence. "And especially this."_

_He heard a strangled cry, the same sort she made when she stubbed her toe on the coffee table, only this cry had the sound of eagerness, of anticipation, as if she were enduring such pain willingly. He dared not go closer though. He was not ever supposed to go in his parents' room. Mummies and daddies needed to have their own space, one that children don't go into._

_He heard her make another soft sound again, accompanied by the deep voice murmuring indistinguishable words. "No," she said at last. "We can't. Danny will be home—"_

_"Patricia," replied the deep voice. "He's seven. It's summer. He'll be occupied for hours at the play yard." The biggest bully at the school was at the playground, and he wasn't about to stay and risk getting a black eye. "Let me just show you—"_

_"Ohh," she said, overlapping whatever it was he'd continued to say, her voice almost pained as the deep voice grunted rhythmically. "Oh, Frank."_

_He furrowed his brows. His father's name was not Frank at all._

………

"Do you love me?"

The room was dark, the two of them bathed only in moonlight, and silent save the faintest sound of music drifting up from the park outside. What she'd asked, though, set his senses to alert, because his first impulse was to reply _Yes_. For a split second he felt as if the whole room had gone institutional white; his ears filled with a persistent buzzing. He tried to will away the noise, tried to bring her face back into focus from this ambush of a question. He supposed he'd known all along that he was falling for her, but to hear her ask outright had put him in a near state of panic.

"Shut up, or I'll do it again," he said in an automatic sort of response, hearkening back to their most recent (and illegal in some parts of the world) sexual position.

Her eyes widened, and she smiled in obvious disbelief. He thought all would be well, until she asked again persistently, "Do you love me?"

"Right," he said. "You asked for it." She giggled as he flipped her over onto her stomach, kissed the back of her neck, roughly parted her legs with an insistent hand. Her giggles quickly turned to gasps and moans as he proceeded to fuck her once more.

As always, it was utterly satisfying and she, completely accommodating. Afterwards he fell silent, deep in thought; she surely thought he'd fallen to sleep, and was soon asleep herself.

What on earth was he doing? He hadn't set out to be in anything resembling a relationship, but he now found himself well down that very path. She was not his usual type; he'd thought she was pretty when he'd seen her in the publicity department, with her ridiculous little skirts, generous curves, and shyly flirtatious manner. Getting her into bed had been his primary goal, and that had been appallingly easy to do. The more time he'd spent with her, however, the more he realised she was unlike any of his other conquests. Bridget was funny, smart, kind, and sexy in a very different way than what he was usually drawn to. It made him wonder what on earth she saw in him; much like Groucho Marx, he hardly wanted to be a member of any club that would have him.

He sat up in bed, careful not to wake her, running his hand through his short, dishevelled hair. When was it, precisely, that he'd started to fall in love? When was it that he began to seek her company for more than just a thrill? When did watching cricket on the telly with her become preferable to a shag? When exactly had he foolishly let his guard down and let this turn into something more serious? He had never intended his romp with Bridget to be anything but a bit of fun, a little fling with the office flirt. Could he really see himself with Bridget as a long-term partner, a wife?

Relationships and love were for other people. Not Daniel Cleaver.

He was surprised when the first rays of sun started to brighten the sky; he knew that Bridget and he had been up late into the night with their mini-break shagging, but he hadn't thought it was so late to meet the sunrise in such short order. With the break of day, the garden party he'd promised to attend came ever closer. It had seemed a daunting but doable prospect until they'd run into his former best friend the day before. He hadn't particularly looked forward to being paraded around a picnic dressed as a vicar and introduced as Bridget's boyfriend, but now, with Mark Darcy's attendance a certainty… if his parents were also there, the likelihood was very high of her learning that the history with Mark Darcy he'd given her was not entirely truthful. He dared not think of her reaction if she learned the truth. He especially did not want her to chuck him; he preferred to be the one to end things. He would have preferred to avoid the fête altogether, but he would just have to do his best to avoid his former best friend and his family, to avoid any talk that might rouse her suspicion.

He was just exiting the shower when his phone began to vibrate on the bathroom counter. Quickly he grabbed it and silenced it. The display read 'unknown caller', was an American number, and a Manhattan prefix, if his memory served. He answered it.

"Yes?"

"Daniel?" Smoky, familiar female voice. "It's Lara. Hope I haven't caught you at a bad time."

In an instant, he regretted not having kept her number in his address book; he might not have answered had he known it was her. He glanced through the slightly open door to where Bridget was asleep in the four-poster bed before pushing the door shut. "No. Not at all."

"I know it's early—for me it's late—but I just got in and was wondering if we could meet to discuss Monday's meeting. Excuse me, _tomorrow's_ meeting."

He always found her accent a little jarring, a touch grating and nasal, until he got used to it. "Do you mean today?"

"Yes. I mean, after I catch a few zees. Sleeping on the flight was impossible. But yes. This afternoon."

"Don't think I can. I have a prior… obligation." He could not bring himself to say the word 'commitment'.

"Daniel." Her voice got darker, more authoritative. "The New York office is seriously considering shutting the London branch down. I think it's your _obligation_ as editor-in-chief to attend to the business at hand."

He took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, as if in relief; he was relieved, actually, that he would not have to attend the party. "You're right, of course. Why don't we make it one, my flat? Lunch is on me."

"Great," she said; "Looking forward to it. Still in the same old hovel?" He could tell she was smiling, could tell that she was honestly looking forward to seeing him.

"Yes," he said, grinning despite himself. "See you then."

He was already dressed when Bridget rose from slumber. She was understandably upset that he was backing out of attending with her, but in the end he convinced her that his work really did need to take precedent over a summer garden party. He dropped her at the party then pushed the limits of his vehicle to get back to London in time to meet Lara with beef and broccoli takeaway.

………

_"Happy Christmas."_

_"Daniel."_

_He stood on the front porch bearing gifts for his best mate and his wife. Surprise, he expected; silence and shock, he did not. "Um. It's a bit cold out here."_

_"Oh," she said, coming back to the present. "Sorry. Come in."_

_She stood back so he might pass by her into the house. "Thought I might bring these by." He handed them to her, shedding his jacket, then looking around himself for other signs of life. "Where's Mark?"_

_He turned back in time to see a strange expression clouding her features. "Working."_

_"On Christmas Eve?"_

_She shrugged. "Yes, well. That's Mark for you." Their Christmas tree, a horrible white artificial table-top monstrosity with identical blue globe ornaments perfectly placed on its limbs, was in the front room, and she walked in there to set the gifts beneath it._

_"Care for a drink?" she asked, turning back to him. "I'd say 'while you wait for Mark' but God only knows when he'll get in."_

_He had no other plans for the evening; his mother and aunt were together in southern Italy on holiday, which pretty much ate up his options for family for Christmas, and as always it was too painful to be alone on Christmas. "Sure, I'll wait."_

_She walked over to where a bottle of merlot sat along with four glasses, as if she'd expected to be entertaining at a moment's notice. Maybe that's what she thought being a barrister's wife would entail; she was still pretty new to the gig. She poured two generous glasses, then handed one to Daniel._

_"I feel like there ought to be a toast," he said._

_A smile touched the corner of her mouth. "To friends." She held up her glass and clinked it against his. "There. How's that?"_

_He grinned, taking a very long draw, as did she. Mark had always had excellent taste in wine. She poured them each another, and for a while, they nattered on with the usual small talk._

_"Daniel," she said, after her glass was nearly gone; it was very good wine, and he was on his third at her insistence, to the point that his head was beginning to swim a bit. "May I ask you a question?"_

_He did not know Mark's wife that well, but he had a feeling he'd be seeing a lot more of her. It behoved him to get to know her better. "Of course."_

_She was clearly considering her words for many moments before she spoke. "I don't think it's normal for a man to neglect his wife so soon after his marriage. Do you?" She finished her wine, set the glass down, then turned her eyes to him, tugging the top button of her blouse open. He suddenly knew exactly to what sort of 'neglect' she was referring. When she spoke again, her voice was deeper, sultrier. "Do you think I'm attractive?"_

_He would not call her a stunning beauty by any stretch, was not as well-endowed as women who usually caught his eye, but she was quite attractive in her own way. "Yes, of course I do."_

_She offered a half-hearted smile. "Maybe it's not me, then."_

_He drained the last of his wine away. He could not help but think of the irony of the scene playing out in front of him: his perfect friend's perfect new bride was trying to seduce him, two weeks out from their wedding. If Mark didn't have a chance at a successful marriage, a faithful partner, what on earth chance did he have? And yet, as she slipped another button open, then another, as he saw the pretty lace and satin of her bra as she traced a finger between her breasts, he felt himself wanting to touch her, felt himself wanting her, especially as she was the forbidden fruit, and his judgment was not at its best at present._

_"No," he said at last. "It's definitely not you."_

_He wasn't exactly clear if she had moved closer to him, or he had moved closer to her, but her desperate mouth was suddenly on his, her hands first on his back then on his arse, pushing him into her. A little voice in the back of his head kept saying that this was what Mark deserved for trusting him too much; he remembered how he had heard Cambridge classmates warn Mark against befriending Daniel, but Mark had chosen to ignore those warnings. She moaned and made soft sounds into his mouth as he kissed her in return, one hand on her backside, one hand aggressively palming a breast, before she broke away._

_"Daniel," she said raggedly. "Mark won't be home for hours. Take me upstairs."_

_With a perfectly good sofa to his right, he wondered why the need to go to the bedroom, but he was not about to argue when she took his hand and led him upstairs and to the bedroom she shared with his best friend._

_Maybe they were each teaching him a lesson in their own way._

_He did not think it possible to strip down to bare skin so quickly, but they each did and were upon each other in no time at all. As he kissed her, stroked her skin, bent to place his eager lips on her breast, she whispered, "The bed."_

_"No," he said, pulling her down to the floor, in front of where the fire was already roaring; she must have been upstairs when he came calling. "Live a little."_

_He was climbing over her, kissing her, pressing fingers between her legs then thrusting forward into her; it left her no chance to protest, only utter muffled cries with each drive forward. He came quickly and easily, but she had not yet, so he rolled over so she was on top. "What are you doing?" she asked breathlessly._

_"You want to come, don't you?" he growled._

_She looked at him for a split second like she didn't understand, before he grabbed her hips and moved her on top of him. She let out a little moan, then began to move of her own volition; he looked up at her, her lower lip between her teeth as she rode him hard._

_Mark. He realised that Mark was standing silently in the doorway. He had no idea how long Mark had been there, but there would be no mistaking what he was seeing for anything other than what it was. Daniel must have tensed up or otherwise done something to alert her of a change in their surroundings, because she stopped and looked at Daniel, who looked pointedly at the door. She looked too._

_Daniel had never seen Mark look angrier. In a voice bespeaking barely-controlled rage, Mark said, his eyes engaged with Daniel's, seemingly mirroring Daniel's own thoughts, "I should have listened, after all."_

_He said nothing to his wife. He only turned, clearly intending to walk away._

_"What about me, Mark?" she asked, scrambling off of Daniel, reaching for her robe. He grabbed a nearby blanket._

_Mark stopped. "You are nothing to me."_

_"Nothing? Nothing?!" Her voice was getting shriller by the moment. "I'm your wife."_

_"I can see you take that vow very seriously." He looked at her, did not blink, only let loose his most penetrating stare. "I'm leaving. Going to my parents for Christmas, alone. When I return, I expect to find you gone."_

_"Mark!" she wailed._

_"The only contact you will have with me is through my solicitor." He turned that piercing gaze to Daniel. "You are no longer welcome in my home."_

_There was silence for many moments after Mark disappeared from view. She then began bitterly ranting and raving with tears in her eyes about what had happened to a man who was not even there—"What do you expect, leaving your wife on her own when you should be on honeymoon? Work's always more important with you, isn't it, Mark?"—while Daniel quietly dressed in preparation to leave._

_"Don't you have anything to say, Daniel?" she said, part anger, part petulance._

_Maybe he had proved himself the most loyal friend of all by revealing Mark's wife's true nature to him; maybe some day Mark would even thank him. He didn't think it wise to say so, however._

_"I guess it isn't true that he always announces when he's coming," he said at last in a wry tone._

………

Lara was waiting for him behind the wheel of her rental car at the kerb, smiling. She emerged with her briefcase and a couple of binders under one arm, and a handbag on the opposite shoulder. She was dressed very casually in denims and a pink sweater over a white tee shirt. Her dark hair had an air of controlled chaos about it—messy, but intentionally so.

"Hey," she said. "Right on time."

"A bit late, actually," said Daniel. "A bit of a queue at the takeaway place."

"It's all right. There's no time table. But I do have a lot I want to go over with you."

He pulled his own bag from the boot of the car then gestured that she should follow. She set down her things and slipped out of her sweater, hanging it upon a peg near the door, before they went up to the main floor to get to work. With Chinese takeaway on the coffee table, papers spread out before them, and his laptop open to the appropriate spreadsheet, they got down to business.

They took opposite ends of the sofa. Lara pulled a strip of beef out of her carton as Daniel flipped through the binder she'd brought. "It's really great to see you."

"Good to see you, too," he replied, glancing up to her. "We haven't talked in a while."

"Very true." She popped the beef into her mouth, then said after eating it, "Are you seeing anyone?"

Daniel looked down, back at the figures. "Yes. Well, sort of."

She chuckled. "'Sort of'? You either are or aren't."

"Just someone from work," he said, hoping to drop the subject quickly.

She laughed again. "I know what _that's_ like. Someone to pass the time."

"Lara, Lara, Lara," he said in a placating tone. "You were never just 'someone to pass the time'." Even though she had been.

She uttered a short, sharp laugh. "And I'm sure you tell her she isn't, either," she said. Cocking an eyebrow, she asked, "Is she thin?"

"Mm, yes," he said.

"Smart?"

"Smarter than me, I suspect."

"Pretty?"

"Adorable." At her hard look, her cool tone, he asked, "Are you jealous?"

Her gaze was steady and unblinking. He knew that look all too well. "What if I were?" She leaned forward, setting down her lunch, then crawled closer to where he sat, plucked the binder out of his hand, and bent into him enough to tease his lower lip with her own. Her fingers brushed against his shoulder before trailing down his chest, nails raking hard across his nipple, over his abdomen, to the waist of his trousers. "Would that plump your frail male ego?"

Her sultry breath on his cheek, the way she was pulling his lip gently through her teeth, reminded him how good they had been together as lovers, what a strong attraction they'd had since meeting; all of those familiar feelings of their past liaisons came rushing in, making what he had with Bridget seem as ordinary and commonplace as the Sunday _Times_. As he claimed her mouth roughly, took hold of her, pressed her against the seat of the sofa and ground his hips into hers, the gasp elicited added fuel to the fire. Clumsily they pulled at one another's clothing; he, disposing of her top, jeans and pants; she, caring only that his trousers and briefs were out of the way.

"Not all that's plumped," she purred just as he thrust into her.

The sex was as rough and lusty as it always had been with her, exhilarating and imminently pleasurable. As he recovered his breath, as he satisfied himself with pushing aside the halves of her bra and taking a nipple roughly in his mouth, he could only ponder that _this_ was what he wanted, _needed_; attraction, not attachment, without deep feelings or complications… or that pesky and ultimately heart-breaking love.

He did, however, fleetingly think how much less there was to her than Bridget.

She moaned in a most satisfied, breathy manner. "Fuck me, Cleaver. Haven't lost your touch."

He couldn't help but chuckle like a prepubescent boy. "Just did," he growled, swirling his tongue around her areola. "And my word, not the slightest hint of jet lag. Impressive."

"You have a way of curing a woman of such things," she said, her deep, throaty voice sending shivers down him again. "Though I'm curious."

He stopped, raising his head to look at her. "About what?"

"Whether your sort-of girlfriend is named Bridget." Her smile was impish; his reaction must have been telling. "I suppose I'll just have to try a little harder—" She squeezed her thighs, causing him to groan. "—to get you to forget all about your adorable, skinny little genius."

"Well on your way," he said, though that was far from being the truth. "Almost made me forget about lunch. That's an excellent start."

"Why not eat in bed?" she asked.

He furrowed his brow. "What about work? Threats to close the London office down?"

"A white lie," she said. "I just wanted to see you. Just… _wanted_ you."

Daniel thought that a man on the verge of curing cancer would be tempted to set aside his work if the right woman said those words in that tone to him. "Naughty," he said. "Very naughty."

The corner of her mouth curled playfully. "And how will you punish me?" she asked in a delightfully innocent tone.

"Very good question," he said, pushing himself away from her, righting his trousers, then pulling her to her feet. "Let's start with this." He pointed at her bra. "All clothes have to go."

She flicked her eyebrows up at him playfully as she stripped down to bare skin.

"Excellent. Ten points for agility. Next, you are to march back into that bedroom."

"And then what?"

"I think you know," he said. "You suggested it."

………

_His father was on the telephone, but was speaking quietly, as if he didn't want anyone to hear. Especially didn't want his wife to hear. "Yes, darling. I'll be there on Friday night. Yes."_

_"Dad."_

_His father turned icy eyes to his son. "Danny, I'm bloody well on the phone, as you can see." He turned to face forward again, began to speak: "As I was saying—"_

_"Dad, who's Frank?"_

_His father stopped his conversation sharply. "Danny, I don't know any Frank. Now I'm warning you. Go play with your toys so I can finish this before I wake your mother from her lie-down so she can make supper."_

_"But Mum had a friend over named Frank in her room, and it didn't sound like he was being very nice to her."_

_His father was silent before speaking into the phone again: "I'll see you Friday." He returned the receiver to the cradle, then turned to the boy once again. "When was this?"_

_Danny shrugged. "When you were gone to Manchester. Saturday, maybe." His father was gone a lot. It was hard to keep track._

_His father rose from where he was sitting. A slow and steady fury was building in him; that much was obvious in the way his face became progressively redder. "Patricia! Patricia, goddamn it, get the fuck in here right now!"_

_"Rupert!" His mother came into the room looking as furious as he'd ever seen her. "How many times have I told you not to swear in front of Daniel?"_

_Rupert grabbed her upper arm and tugged her roughly to him. "Who the fuck is Frank?"_

_At this his mother's face went paper white. "Frank? He's no one. No one."_

_"Why would Daniel be asking me who Frank was, and why he was doing things that were 'not very nice' to you in our goddamned bedroom?"_

_"Rupert," she said, turning her eyes to her son. "Please, not here."_

_"Did he fuck you?" Rupert demanded hotly. _

_"Daniel, go to your room," his mother said. Daniel ran out of the kitchen, but lingered out of sight in the doorway to listen to their argument. He had never seen anything quite like it; he was fascinated and horrified at the same time, and he couldn't tear himself away._

_His father continued, "Did he fuck you right there in our bed? Did you fucking like it, you dirty bitch?"_

_His mother's blue eyes widened, and he saw her skin go from white to a deep crimson in her own anger. _This_ was now the angriest he'd ever seen her. Her eyes filled with tears as she said, "Well, I guess you would know a dirty bitch to see one."_

_"What is that supposed to mean?"_

_"I have overlooked your indiscretions for many years, Rupert," she said, her ire barely controlled. "Don't think I don't know about your secretaries, your little office steno pool tarts…"_

_"You still haven't told me who Frank is."_

_"Frank… is a friend," she said._

_"Do you deny that you slept with him?"_

_She raised her chin. "I don't deny it."_

_"Bitch," hissed his father. "How dare you betray me."_

_"Me betray you? After all of your affairs through the years, you have the nerve—?"_

_"Patricia," he said dangerously._

_"And at least Frank says he loves me, which is more than I've heard from you in years."_

_"Bullshit, 'he loves you'," said his father. "Frank wanted in your knickers."_

_"Yes, well, you would know all about that as well." She gave him a cold look before looking to the kitchen door, and upon noticing her son was still standing there, her expression turned to one of horror. "Daniel! I said go to your room!"_

_Daniel's eyes widened and he ran away as she followed him, ran all the way to his room, tears in his eyes. He knew his parents were fighting, and he didn't like it. It was not until years later that he understood exactly about what they'd been fighting. His parents never let him forget._

………

Daniel woke feeling he'd had a full night's sleep, when in reality it had only been an hour, hour and a half at most. He blinked, found himself alone in a very tousled bed, and was poised to call Bridget's name when he remembered that it wasn't Bridget who was most recently absent from his bed. He sat up, running his fingers through his hair. He could hear movement in the loo, splashing water. "Lara? What are you doing?"

"Limited options in the bathroom, Cleaver," she called back. "Taking a bath. It's been a very long day."

He smiled, though it faded as the reality of what he'd done came into focus: this was well beyond the point of no return. _Cocked it up again, Cleaver_, he thought. Not that he was in the least bit surprised. He had long ago rid himself of any illusions that he was long-term commitment material. Bridget would be better off without him, and he… he would be safe.

He rose from the bed to put his clothes back on. They looked none the worse for wear, not at all like they'd been thrown haphazardly on the chair in his room. He pulled the corners of the sheets and duvet taut, smoothed out the barest hint of what had occurred that afternoon. It was likely that Bridget would call upon arrival in town, and he would go to see her, probably even offer to buy her dinner to make up for bailing on her at the party. Even though he logically knew he needed to end it with Bridget, knew that a split was the only viable conclusion, he found himself missing her; he wanted to know how she'd fared in her bunny girl outfit, wanted to talk to her, wanted to make her smile if it had not gone well… and especially wanted to know if Mark had troubled her in any way.

He needed Lara to get dressed and get back to her hotel.

He went into the bathroom, saw that she was just drying herself off. "Feeling much, much better," she said, then amended, "well, much cleaner, anyhow." She offered her most seductive smile and it was tempting, terribly tempting. "Did you sleep well?"

"Just fine," he said. "Hate to do this to you, but… I do have plans tonight."

"Are you giving me the heave ho?" she asked with a grin. Nothing seemed to fluster her.

"For now," he said.

After a pause, she said, "Ahhh. I understand. You've got plans with _her_."

A shrill buzzing filled the air. The doorbell. "Hold on."

He passed through the bedroom, stuck his head out the living room window and forced a bright smile even as he was filled with horror at this worst-case-scenario come true; it was Bridget. He could hardly refuse to let her up, because as far as she knew, he was only working. He raced through the flat, picking up the cartons of food and pitching them in the rubbish bin, grabbing her binder and kicking her clothing beneath the couch; he'd send Bridget home to have a bath after her undoubtedly excruciating day, then he would worry about finding the bits and pieces that had been scattered to the four winds.

"Lara," he said, thrusting the binder at her. "I need you to stay in here and not say a word."

"It's Bridget at the door, isn't it?" she said.

"Yes."

She smiled. "Won't even know I'm here."

"Thanks. Won't be long. Promise."

He pulled the bathroom door then the bedroom door closed, then went out to press the buzzer to release the lock. It was no more than a minute or so since he'd called down to her, but it had felt like so much longer.

He met her at the door. She was still dressed in full bunny regalia from the party, and bore her overnight bag, which she dropped on the floor in the entryway. "Hi." He bent and kissed her cheek. "Come on up."

He led her up into the heart of the flat; he saw her look around at the papers, the open laptop, and he felt quite secure that she thought he was doing nothing but working. "Sorry, I've been really busy."

"I know," she said. "I really, _really_ wanted to see a friendly face."

He took her hands in his. "Oh… now, listen. I'll tell you what. Let me finish this while you go home, have a long, hot bath, and I'll call 'round, and we'll have dinner later, okay?"

She smiled, clearly pleased at the idea.

Suddenly, to his dismay, he heard something very much like a door closing; the sound came from the direction of his bedroom. Her brows furrowed. "Is there someone here?"

"Not that I'm aware of…. Unless that Bosnian family has moved in again. Bastards."

She gazed at him as if he were mental, then shot towards the direction of the bedroom and threw wide the door. Her relief was palpable when she saw the bedroom was unoccupied, the bed perfectly made. "Oh," she said, righting her bunny ears. "I'm sorry. Sorry. I'm going mad."

"Listen, I am feeling really bad, actually," Daniel said, which wasn't untrue. "I should've been there today."

"No," she said in typical form. "I'm sorry."

"No, no, I'm sorry… but at least I got a hell of a lot of work done. Just give me one more hour, okay?"

"Fine. That's fine. I will go home and de-bunny." Her smile was charming. "Oh… and you know last night when I said that I loved you?"

He actually had no recollection of her actually saying any such thing, only asking him if he loved her. Noncommittally, he said, "Mm-hmm."

"I didn't mean it. I was being ironic."

"Oh, God," he replied; he didn't think for a second she was being ironic at all, only trying to smooth over his non-response the night before. "I know, I know."

He walked her to the front door, picked up her bag and handed it to her with a smile. At that moment, though, as a crippling horror washed over his body, her eyes connected with that pink cardigan Lara had hung on the peg on her way in, which, in his haste to rid the flat of any trace of Lara, he realised he had most egregiously forgotten about.

Bridget's eyes turned to him, an expression of surprise, hurt, and anger crossing her face, as she dropped the bag and raced back up into the flat. Quick as a, well, rabbit, she aimed directly for his bedroom and everything seemed to freeze in that moment when she flung open the bathroom door and saw that Lara was perched on the edge of the bathtub, still completely naked, leaning on the open binder she was using to cover herself. She had her head cocked.

"Bridge," he said, stumbling on his tongue, "Bridget. This is Lara from the New York office. Lara, this is Bridget."

Smooth as silk Lara said, "Hey, there." She looked to Daniel as Bridget did the same, a playful twinkle in Lara's eye. "I thought you said she was thin."

At that, Bridget pushed past him and despite his calls after her, she grabbed her bag and rushed out of the building. He thought about going after her, but in the end, decided it was best to just let her go. Best for both of them.

_Fuck_, he thought.

He went back into the flat, back upstairs, and found Lara looking rather penitent, although it did not seem entirely sincere. "Sorry," she said. "I closed the door a little too hard."

"I closed the door," said Daniel.

"Well, yes," she said, "but I couldn't resist trying to have a listen."

"Lara," he said, his tone dark.

"I was curious to hear her voice." Lara stood, setting the binder down, and she suddenly seemed taller and thinner than was humanly possible. "Come on, Daniel. Take it as a sign we were meant to be together." She placed her hands on his hips, pulling him directly into her still-naked body. "She's cute, but she's so… ordinary. Naïve. Not like you and I. She never saw this coming… what kind of an angel does she think you are, anyway?"

She teased at his lips with hers, trying to goad a kiss out of him; his resistance wore further and further down as his mother's voice echoed in his head from long ago: _Men are all the same. They only want one thing, and they'll do anything to get it._

………

_"What do you mean, 'only want one thing'?"_

_He'd been asking the same question for four years, and the answer was always the same. Today was no different._

_She paused to put the folded laundry into his drawer. "You'll find out soon enough, Daniel."_

_Daniel struggled as he always did to understand what she could mean by her answer, perplexing and cryptic as it was, when his thoughts turned to Nora Sutcliffe from a grade ahead of his at school; when they'd returned from the summer holiday break, she suddenly had a very different shape, a grown-up body. It had especially been her larger breasts that Daniel had been fascinated by, the way they pressed against her sweater and bounced when she ran. He had never really thought about them before; all older women were shaped like that, after all. His female classmates someday having womanly figures was something that had not really occurred to him._

_He also thought about chatter amongst his mates at school, particularly the older boys, suddenly commenting on how much they fancied Nora, speculating on what she looked like without her sweater on, wanting to catch her alone and maybe kiss her, maybe do more, but what that 'more' exactly was he did not quite know. He thought she was pretty; she smelled nice and she always smiled at him when she saw him. He had to admit that he had himself wondered what she looked like now without her sweater, and realised that the thought of kissing a girl suddenly didn't seem so dreadful._

_"Mum," said Daniel tentatively. "Are you talking about… girls?"_

_His mother actually smiled a little. "You see, Daniel? I told you you'd find out soon enough."_

_"But I still don't understand," he said. "Boys are supposed to want girls when they grow up, aren't they?"_

_"Most of the time," said his mother, then added with a hint of bitterness, "but it's more than just wanting girls, my dear. It's wanting something only girls can give them." _

_He felt frustrated. "What's that supposed to mean?"_

_She went over, patting down his unruly hair with her hand. "You'll have to ask your father about that." She kissed the top of his head then left his room, but not before glancing back to him with an affectionate but troubled look on her face._

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**The Lost Boy**  
Part 2 of 4

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 28,821 (Part 2: 6,246)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, etc.: See Part 1.

* * *

_Part 2_

Daniel roused to the feel of the bed moving. He opened his eyes, prepared to ask Bridget where she thought she was going, when it all came back to him. Bridget was gone, and hadn't needed to say anything to express that she never wanted to see him again.

"Sorry, have to go." It was Lara, fixing the clasp of her bra before running her fingers through her dark hair. She had managed to find all of her clothes, and they sat on a pile on the bed next to her. "They're sending a car for me at the hotel in the morning and it would look bad if I weren't there to get it."

He smiled. She reached out her hand, caressed the lines of his face.

"I have missed you, Daniel," she said. "I know our fling back in New York was only supposed to have been a sort of 'no strings' thing. I know we never promised anything to each other, but…"

"But?"

"But I always kind of wanted you for my own." She smiled. "I'd ask you to marry me if I thought you'd accept."

He looked at her and thought, _What the hell._ He was attracted to her and admired her drive, intelligence and ambition; he figured he had good a chance with her as with anyone, and with no deep emotional attachment, there would no broken heart if she left him. "Sure."

She looked confused. "What?"

"Marry me."

She looked shocked, but pleased nevertheless. "I was kidding."

"You don't want me?" he asked, feigning hurt.

"Of course I do," she said, "but I really didn't think you'd accept."

Daniel sat up, cupping her face in his hand, bending to kiss her. She pulled back.

"Come now," he said. "This calls for a celebration."

"You're not doing this on the rebound against Little Miss Bunny Girl, are you?"

"Of course not," said Daniel, taking her mouth roughly with his own. "She filled the time, and was a decent shag. But she means nothing to me."

Acquiescing, she returned the kiss, pressing him back against the pillows, straddling his hips. As he ran his fingers over the satin cup, then over her bare arse, he was glad she had only made it as far as her bra.

As Lara mounted him, he could only think how much more aggressive she was than Bridget.

………

_He had thought that his parents divorcing would make things a little bit better, a little less tense, but in actual fact he had grown to feel like a much-abused badminton shuttle. He lived with his mother, who spent most of her time venting her frustration about her ex-husband and sniping about men in general (the unseen Frank had not reappeared in her life, rather having proven his father correct). He stayed with his father every other weekend per the terms of the divorce. Daniel always felt like he was in the way of his father's social life; his dad was sullen, unhappy, and still clearly blamed his wife for the split, wasting no opportunity to lay all the blame at her feet as the singular betrayer of the vows they'd made. Daniel understood better as he got older that his father's infidelity was the likely cause of his mother's dissatisfaction with her marriage, and her subsequent straying._

_For Daniel, the advent of puberty was like being blessed with some kind of superpower. His intelligence, quick wit and good looks were a winning combination with the girls in his class, and even those older than he was. When he experienced first-hand what his mother had been delicately alluding to for years, to say he had enjoyed it very much would have been an understatement. Suddenly he understood everything._

_He had seen the devastating effect of love and relationships, had experienced the ecstasy of sex, and had decided pretty much straightaway that it was entirely possible to have the latter without the encumbrance of the former. In fact, he wondered why more people didn't do it._

_As he grew and matured, he only got more handsome—this was not vain thinking on his part, but compliments paid to him by the girls then women he met—and therefore he had many opportunities to hone his skills and improve his prowess._

………

The one thing Daniel had not expected the next day in the office was for Lara to be there before he was, waiting in his office when he arrived. A couple of his co-workers were already emailing him congratulations on the engagement, for which he replied with a neutral 'thank you'. Reflexively he glanced to Bridget's desk. She was there and staring into his office before glancing quickly away, then grabbing some papers from her desk and departing again; he vaguely remembered a meeting about a publicity campaign on a children's book. He felt relieved, but he also knew that he had to tell Bridget as soon as possible about his unexpected engagement.

At a knock on his door, he looked up and saw Bridget standing there, drab skirt and top, and trainers instead of heels, clearly hiding in the some of the plainest clothes she had. She had a sheaf of papers in her hand and met his eyes through the glass reluctantly. He waved her in.

She began speaking without fanfare, sticking to business, not meeting his gaze again. "We've had very good response to the _Teddy Knows Best_ teaser campaign and had various local radio bits for—"

"Look, Bridge," he said, "stop that." She looked at him at last. "I feel… terrible. The thing is… with Lara and me… well, you know…" He drifted off.

"No," she said coolly. "You'll have to fill me in."

"Well, the truth is…" he began, not at all sure what to say. "The truth is, we're the same, Bridge, you and me. You know? We're two people of a certain age looking for the moment to commit and finding it really—" He faltered for a moment before finishing. "—_hard_. And I just think that in the end it's got to be something extraordinary, something which makes us go that extra mile. And I think Lara and… I don't know, being American and all… it has something to do with confidence and being so… well, young, you know? Well, we've… become very close."

Bridget scoffed. "Well, you've only just met her. She flew in yesterday."

He stared hard at her, disbelieving she really could be as nave as Lara said. It broke his heart a little.

"Oh," she said at last, looking down in shame. "Silly Bridget. You haven't only just met her."

"No," he said. "No. I got to know her pretty well when we were in the New York office together."

She pursed her lips. "Oh."

"Oh, fuck," he said exasperatedly, running his fingers through his hair. "There's no easy way to say this, but, um… I wanted you to be the first to know that… we're engaged."

He _had_ wanted her to be the first to know, even though it hadn't quite worked out that way; without another word, she nodded as if to say she had heard him, then, holding the papers close to her chest, she strode determinedly out of his office.

Within moments, Lara came in without knocking. "How'd she take it?"

"About as expected," said Daniel.

Later that day, he found himself approached by a small group of men from legal, smiles bright on their faces. "Heard you're getting married," said Paul, clearly the spokesperson for the group; the rest just nodded in agreement.

"Yes."

"Congratulations," he continued. "Lucky man. That Bridget is a real catch."

"Um," he said. "I'm engaged to _Lara_."

None of them could hide that flash of surprise, even disappointment, as Daniel's words filtered through. "Oh," said Paul, looking like he'd just bit down into a lemon. "I just—well, congratulations all the same."

Before too much longer, a message came through addressed to the email distribution list for the entire London office, from "JONES, B.", subject: "A misapprehension."

_I appreciate your kind words of congratulations, but I am not in fact engaged. Please see Mr Cleaver with any follow-up questions._  
_- Bridget Jones, Publicity_

………

_One of these days Daniel was going to get caught, and he wondered if he were more or less likely to keep doing it as a result. He was fortunate enough to have a ground floor room, and his roommate liked to keep the window opened in the evenings. He pushed the lower pane up, hefted himself through the opening, landing on the pillows he kept just under the study room window for this very reason. He was a touch on the drunk side, though, and pulling himself through the window was a little more challenging than he expected, and half of him landed outside the soft pillowed surface, knocking the wind out of him._

_Within moments of landing on the floor, his roommate poked his head out of his bedroom with a concerned look. "Are you all right?"_

_"Oof," Daniel replied as he lay on the floor, attempting to recover his breath. "Yeah, nothing vital damaged."_

_His roommate assumed an imperious posture, crossing his arms in front of his chest, staring down at him with a penetrating look. "You've got to stop this."_

_Daniel pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. "Yes, Mum."_

_"Sooner or later you're going to have to admit to what you've done."_

_On second thought, his roommate Mark was worse than his mother. "What Susan doesn't know won't kill her."_

_"Daniel," Mark said impatiently, "I'm tired of making excuses for you. Susan doesn't deserve this—she's from an excellent family with good connections in your anticipated field." He paused before continuing. "She came by three times tonight, and I'm sure she's perched somewhere nearby waiting for you." _

_There was a knock on the door just then, which turned into a persistent pounding. "Daniel!" It was Susan. "Bloody well let me in! I'm fed up with talking to everyone but you!"_

_"What did you tell her?"_

_Mark said nothing, only continued his stare before going to the door and swinging it open. "Hello, Susan. Daniel's finally available. Why don't I leave you two to talk?" Mark then went back into his room._

_"Susan," he said. She really was a gorgeous girl, and an excellent shag._

_She folded her arms in front of her chest, just as Mark had done. "What have you been up to, Daniel? Why am I being given the run-around every time I stop by or phone your room?"_

_"I'm sorry," he said, not wanting to contradict anything Mark might have told her._

_She narrowed her eyes. "I knew it."_

_"Knew what?"_

_"I should have guessed sooner," she said, tears glossing up her eyes, but she seemed determined not to show it. "After all, you did the same to Lizzy… with me."_

_Daniel said nothing._

_"You're a total shit and I never want to see you again," she shouted, before she turned and stormed out of the room. He could see her furiously wipe something from her face as she went down the hall and rounded the corner towards the exit._

_He closed the door behind her, flipping the lock and heading back into the suite he shared with Mark._

_"Is she gone?" It was Mark, standing half in, half out of his room._

_"You psychic?"_

_"No," said Mark, the barest hint of a smile touching his mouth. "It was hard not to hear that she never wanted to see you again."_

_Daniel grinned despite what had happened; it's not like he was surprised, after all, maybe just a bit disappointed she'd dumped him. "Yeah, I suppose that was a big clue she was going."_

_Mark took a seat on the chair in the study area. "You know, avoiding commitment doesn't mean treating women like tissue," he said in that paternally condescending way he had._

_"What makes you think I'm avoiding commitment?" he retorted in a slightly more defensive tone than he intended._

_"Anyone paying the slightest bit of notice could see your painfully short attention span when it comes to women. You're going to run through the entire stock of potential partners before you're through here."_

_"I'm not looking for a partner," he said, taking another chair, pulling a cigarette out and lighting the end. "I'm certainly not looking for love."_

_"Must you smoke in here?" asked Mark crossly._

_"Yes," replied Daniel, taking a long drag, earning him a stern, disapproving look._

_As if uninterrupted by talk of smoking, Mark asked, "So if not love, what are you looking for at such a rapid clip?"_

_"Mark," he said patronisingly. "You talk as if you have never shagged a woman before. What do you think I'm looking for?"_

_"I'm not at Cambridge to have sex with as many women as possible, as you seem to be," retorted Mark. "I'm here to read law. If I happen to meet a suitable woman, so be it."_

_"Aw, mate, you work too hard," Daniel said after another long draw. "You need to get out more. Even your mate Hugh would agree your lifestyle is ascetic to the point of monkdom." He thought for a moment. "So what exactly are you looking for?"_

_"I'm not looking for anything right now but to finish—"_

_"I don't mean right now. I mean eventually."_

_He half-expected Mark to spew forth some romantic gibberish about soul mates, as sheltered as Mark was about some things, but Daniel was in for a surprise. "Good connections, both socially and politically; a mutual respect and an ability to compromise, like any good merger." Mark paused a moment before adding, "Sex would be, I think, an aspect to consider, but isn't everything."_

_At that, Daniel burst out laughing. "Mate, you really need to get out more." He stubbed out his cigarette, pulled out another one and lit it. "What about excitement, that rush of being swept up in sensation?"_

_"One cannot base a relationship on that alone. That's an extremely weak foundation." _

_"I also noticed that love didn't rank in your requirements."_

_Mark chuckled. "I don't think that real love is as common as popular music and films would have you believe."_

_"What about your parents? You are, I swear, the only person I know whose parents are still together."_

_"I think they're one of those rare cases," said Mark, "where marrying for love alone actually worked."_

_Daniel scoffed._

_"What?" asked Mark._

_"Marriage isn't the only option."_

_Mark looked doubtful. "It's the only socially acceptable one."_

_Daniel thought, and not for the first time, what an odd duck Mark Darcy was, how unlikely their friendship was, and how much he appreciated it. _

………

It wasn't long before Bridget had quit her job, with far less than the required six weeks' notice, to accept a position in television. Tensions between them in the office had been palpable; she ignored him unless absolutely necessary, and only then to talk business. He understood, even felt badly, which he further used to justify to himself breaking it off with Bridget, because obviously he cared too much.

He did realise two things immediately after her departure. One was precisely how close to angry mob his employees had gotten when they learned that it was not to Bridget that he had become engaged. The other was exactly how much he had glanced up during the course of his working day to look at her, a habit that became pointedly obvious when she was no longer there.

He congratulated himself on a successful escape once again, even as he looked at her empty chair.

Lara had tried to insist on checking out of the hotel to stay with him—"It seems only right," she'd said, "since we're engaged and all"—but he had refused. He needed the refuge of his flat after working with her all day long. She had a tendency, however, to show up unannounced anyway, and while they ended up in bed more often than not for beyond-satisfactory sex, each instance reminded him how much he had regretted this engagement, such as it was, not even sealed with a proper ring.

Lara spent a good deal of time on the weekends with Daniel, too. It became clear in short order that Lara had decided ideas about what she wanted to do and when, rarely brooked opposition, and only grudgingly allowed him watching cricket or football on the telly; it was obvious she did not care at all for watching with him. She was not particularly witty; she did not make jokes easily, did not laugh at the more clever of Daniel's jokes, and she certainly did not laugh at herself. She was not affectionate, did not offer little kisses or snuggle up to him in bed after sex.

He missed those little things. A lot.

Approximately three weeks after Bridget was out of his life in even a professional capacity, he had apparently placed the very last straw on the camel's back. He had taken Lara to supper, they had each had quite a lot of wine to drink, and had stumbled back to Daniel's flat for a round of shagging that rivalled an illicit tryst in terms of energy and urgency—something that frankly they had not had since it had been an illicit tryst—when Lara stopped what she was doing and pushed him away.

"That is it," she said, rising to her feet from where she'd been straddling him. "That is absolutely it. Take your fucking engagement and shove it."

He felt whiplashed. "What? What's the matter?" he said in a gasp, mostly from being left in the lurch.

"You have called me 'Bridget' for the very last fucking time," she said angrily, clasping her bra again, then beginning for the search for her top. "If you think about her so goddamned much, why the fuck did you ever agree to marry me?"

"I'm sorry," he said; "it's just that she and I were together for almost four months. Habits die hard."

"Fuck you, Daniel," she spat. "It is not a 'habit' to call a woman by someone else's name in bed almost two months after breaking up with her. It's fucking pathological." Now fully dressed, she stared down to him; he imagined it was not a very dignified sight, slouched on the sofa with his trousers undone and left in such a painfully aching state. "Goodbye."

As the door to the flat slammed shut, he lolled his head back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. This was why he hated getting too close. It made things too complicated with other women. With a great sigh he reached down and, closing his eyes, decided to finish what Lara had started; he couldn't very well leave himself that way.

He hated himself for thinking of Bridget the entire time.

………

Lara had hopped on a plane the very next day; her work in London had long been over, and she had only remained for Daniel, angling to transfer to the London office. He went back to his old, comfortable habits: trolling nightclubs, hitting on women, taking them home for a one-night stand.

He heard from Perpetua of all people where Bridget had landed a job; she was working on production for a current events show called Sit Up Britain. In fact, Perpetua spoke highly of the show, said that she had gotten an email from Bridget in which Bridget spoke of how happy she was in her new work environment. Daniel was certain that Perpetua was laying exaggeration on thickly in order to try to make him miserable. Admittedly, it was sort of working, especially since everyone in the office was delighted for Bridget when they heard the news.

Out of curiosity, he tuned in, knowing that working production probably meant she was not actually on the air, but on the off-chance she was, he wanted to see her. The show itself was rather awful, but he found himself unable to look away. He began to watch on a very regular basis, as if he couldn't wait to see whether or not they'd be able to outdo themselves, but also to be sure not to miss in case it was the day Bridget happened to be on the air; he did see her name in the credits for story ideas on almost every episode. After only a few episodes he was able to guess which were hers and they were always the most interesting and freshest takes on even the most mundane subjects, which did not surprise him. She was on more than one occasion mentioned on air; he figured it was only a matter of time before they put her on camera. She was, after all, attractive and rather engaging, and would have made a perfect presenter.

It was a rather pathetic fixation, he knew—especially for a man who hated watching television as a rule.

………

Bonfire Night brought the payoff he'd been waiting for.

It was not as if he were living and breathing for Sit Up Britain. His life was not that pitiful. He still had his nights out meeting new women, even sometimes taking them out a second or third time for dinner. He certainly wasn't sitting home, watching old Sit Up Britain video tapes and drinking beer.

But he was watching the night of Sunday, the fifth of November. He saw Bridget's descent into the shot, saw her nearly land on the camera man, could not take his eyes off of her arse as it filled the screen. He smiled, then chuckled, then found himself laughing so hard he was crying.

God, how he missed her, even though he knew she was far better off without him. And he knew he was better off without a bloody relationship.

At the conclusion of the show, he switched off the telly and opened his laptop, intending on reviewing spreadsheets for the next day's meeting. He was resolved to consign himself to sales projections and publishing schedules for the remainder of the evening. He decided before embarking on such pedantic work that he would need some shoring up. A glass of wine was in order.

He went into the kitchen and realised that he had never changed his calendar for November. He took it down, flipped up to the next month, and was surprised to see a handwritten note for the following Thursday.

It was Bridget's handwriting, evidently something she had jotted into his calendar when he wasn't looking, advising him of her birthday. She had jotted an additional little note: "Dinner, my flat? Will have you in lieu of cake."

He chuckled, hanging the calendar back on the hook. He thought again how he missed her, immediately followed by self-censure for thinking in such a sentimental way. He did not want nor need a relationship. He'd seen what relationships had done to the people in his life; his parents, especially his mother, his former best friend, which was ironic to say in the least considering his own part in shattering that marriage. He really wanted no part of one of his own. In fact, he did not even think himself constitutionally capable of one.

He got his glass of wine and went to work, determined not to think of women, relationships, or especially Bridget anymore.

………

_What hurt the most was not that Daniel had been intentionally lured into her bed, possibly to try to exact revenge against her husband Mark. No, what had hurt the most was Mark's having painted Daniel, a man he'd known since university days, as solely responsible for what had happened. Every call went unanswered and unreturned; every drop-in visit, ignored. It became clear that Mark thought she had been the one who had been lured, that Daniel had done so simply because of opportunity and because… well, because it was something Daniel was so good at. Daniel doubted very much that she had taken even a moment to try to explain what had happened: that she'd plied Daniel with excellent wine then practically jumped him on the sofa, because the collateral damage to Mark was likely just too pleasing to her._

_He didn't think by any means that he was himself innocent in the affair. He should have known better; he should have resisted. Even though he'd had no hand in initiating sex, he was prepared to share the blame for what had happened. Mark was unable or unwilling to let Daniel take only the part that was actually his; instead, he was doomed to bear all of it._

_Daniel thought of their long ago conversation about relationships and women, and realised this all must have taken a terrible toll on Mark's pride; he never would have married her if she hadn't fulfilled his very stringent qualifications, yet his well-planned merger had managed to fail miserably anyway. It occurred to Daniel that Mark's anger probably had more to do with having made such a cataclysmic mistake than because of any lost love over his wife. _

………

There had been nothing in the news all week but the trial of Kurdish freedom fighter Kafir Aghani, to the point where Daniel was sick to death of hearing about it. He was sympathetic to the cause, but was bored to tears seeing Mark Darcy in the papers and on the telly; specifically, the palm of Mark Darcy's outstretched hand as he was photographed and quoted as refusing to grant interviews. It was typical Mark, hero for the cause, not wanting to bask in the glory when by all rights he should have.

Daniel was therefore not the least bit surprised when the promo for Sit Up Britain mentioned Kafir Aghani as well. What did surprise him, however, was mention of an interview.

_They must be lying_, said Daniel. He couldn't wait to see how the show would pull this one off and not piss off the viewership.

To Daniel's great shock, though, they delivered on that promise. On screen was the defendant, his wife Eleanor, his lawyer Mark, and their interviewer: Bridget.

He was surprised that Mark had conceded the interview, even more surprised when Mark began speaking rather candidly about the case… and triply surprised when he saw Mark looking at Bridget.

Daniel knew what that look meant. He remembered what it felt like to wear that look. Mark was intrigued by her, undoubtedly attracted to her, possibly even smitten by her. Instead of waxing eloquent as Mark was wont to do on law-related esoterica, Daniel watched that moment when he trailed off soundlessly, quite evidently distracted by her.

Daniel felt ridiculous for never considering that Bridget might have been seeing someone else after she'd left him. Had she been seeing Mark? The look she gave him in return suggested she was distracted, too, but not quite to the same extent—if she had been, the two of them would have merely sat there mutely with gooey looks on their faces while Kafir and Eleanor looked around in puzzlement.

Daniel could not get over the irony of the possibility of losing Bridget to Mark—not like Daniel still had a realistic chance with her. Even though Bridget was as far from being Mark's ideal as his college ex Susan was, Daniel had never seen that look on Mark's face before. As for Mark, he was the sort of man Bridget could easily respect; with the way she looked at him, she clearly already did. If Mark shared the truth about the split with his wife, correcting the lie Daniel had told Bridget so many months ago, any roadblocks causing Bridget to keep her distance would be obliterated. Consequently, if she warmed to him, Mark's list of requirements might well go out the window in favour of her effusive personality, her wit, her lovely smile.

It seemed inevitable to Daniel. Mark would forgive her tardiness, charmed by her odd but adorable excuses; he would overlook the fact that Bridget's idea of cleaning up was to toss as much stuff under the bed and into the closet as possible; Mark would grant her anything not on the strength of a well-crafted argument, but because of a well-timed pout. Mark would, because Daniel did.

Bridget in return would fill the empty places in Mark's life with her joy, her spontaneity and her affection. Daniel remembered all too clearly in retrospect that she'd done the same for him.

Daniel let out a great breath he did not realise he'd been holding in as the interview concluded, closing and squeezing his eyes at Bridget's mention of "a bit of a crush". It may have been overly optimistic, but maybe it was not too late to get her back before she was lost to him forever.

He remembered the calendar-jotted dinner invitation, and vowed he would not let her spend her birthday alone. He knew it would touch her to think he had remembered her birthday, and perhaps with his foot in the door, he could plead his case. He had treated her poorly by cheating on her, but that had just been his fear of commitment surfacing, hadn't it? Hindsight had shown him he really had not felt the same way about any other woman he'd been with as he had about Bridget, and the persistent loneliness (despite the meaningless trysts) was trying to tell him exactly what he needed.

He would bring a bottle of wine and his best apologetic look.

………

_Part of the reason Daniel and Mark had remained such good friends after university was that they filled a void in each others' lives. For all of his extroversion, Daniel would have spent a lot of time on his own without Mark, watching sports on the telly with him, drinking beer and shouting at the players on screen; Mark, who was much more introverted, could count amongst his friends a few colleagues with whom he infrequently met socially, and his parents, with whom he still had a very good relationship. Their friendship was symbiotic in a sense; Daniel could count on Mark to be a voice of reason, and Mark could rely on Daniel to bring a little humour and fun into his life._

_For thinking Daniel would so willingly destroy something he held in such high regard, and for refusing to even try to rebuild their long-standing friendship, while knowing of his less-than-perfect home life as a child, knowing his parents were nothing like the fine examples of domestic perfection that the Darcys were, Daniel was angry at Mark—possibly as angry as Mark was at Daniel. Watching football on Sunday afternoons became a hollow pursuit; it was not nearly as enjoyable watching matches alone. He missed his friend even as he hated what had happened. Daniel had made his overtures, and they had been soundly rejected. If Mark wanted to repair things, he would have to be the one to approach Daniel, who saw little point in continuing to flog a dead horse._

………

He planned to arrive at about eight, hoping that he could talk her into coming out for supper with him just like that night of the book launch for _Kafka's Motorbike_, where he was able to sweep her off of her feet, take her back to his flat, and get her into bed. While that wasn't all he wanted from her—and God, yes, he had very much missed her in that respect—he knew it was a valuable first step to working his way back into her life.

The door to her building was ajar as it often was, so he let himself in; it seemed not to catch unless it was pulled tightly closed. He scaled the stairs to her top floor flat and rapped on the door, feeling a little breathless both with anticipation and with the climb up.

Bridget was not the one who answered the door. Rather, it was a short, dark-haired woman giving him a rather scrutinising look. "Yes?"

For a moment panic welled in him. Was it possible she had moved? But no, glancing in, the décor was exactly the same as it had always been. "Um, yes. Hi. I was looking for Bridget."

"And you are…?"

"Daniel."

At the sound of his name, there was definite recognition in her expression, and it was not positive in any sense. "She's eating." He thought maybe she would not let him in, but she stepped back. "Come on in. She can tell you to bugger off yourself."

He followed her up the stairs and into the area where he knew Bridget kept a table, but he had rarely seen it used for supping. "Who…?" began Bridget, but before Jude had a chance to respond, Bridget's eyes lit upon him.

Daniel's eyes travelled around the table. "Ah. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I'm obviously interrupting a…" Just then noticed his former friend was there, seated directly beside Bridget. "Darcy," he blurted in his surprise. "What brings you here? Oh, right. Yeah. I should've guessed, shouldn't I?"

He knew the reference would immediately resonate with Bridget: the lie he'd told depicting Mark as the offender in the destruction of their friendship, suggesting a pathological need to pursue Daniel's girlfriends. Her expression seemed to suggest he'd hit the target.

There was another man at the table, and at that moment he jumped up and practically over a blonde woman seated at the table. He offered his hand and a rather indecent sort of smile. "Hi. I'm Tom. It's really good to meet you at last."

He accepted the handshake without conscious thought and said, "Yeah, listen, I just came to, uh…" He looked at Mark, the other two women, and Tom again before directing his eyes back to Bridget, the bottle of wine heavy in his grasp, feeling a bit foolish. "I thought you might be on your own. Huh. What an idiot."

Bridget rose to her full height, her voice strained as she spoke, her eyes apologetic. "Excuse me."

She walked towards the kitchen. Daniel set the wine down on the table then followed, aware of the rest of the party's eyes on the both of them. It was time for a little honesty, long overdue, but perhaps the last chance he'd have.

"I've been going crazy," he said in a low voice, once they were in the kitchen. "I can't stop thinking about you… and thinking what a fucking idiot I've been." He looked down to the pot on the hob, and was surprised at what he saw. "Christ. Is that blue soup?"

Perfectly deadpan, she replied, "Yes."

Just as sure as he could feel Mark's eyes burning into his back, he felt a pang of regret as something as ludicrous as blue soup, something so typically and charmingly ridiculous, something so… Bridget. "That Sunday in the country…" He glanced back to the dining table, found he was right about Mark. He looked back to her. "Come outside."

They stepped out onto her little balcony, were greeted by the sound of a distant siren. She rubbed her arms against the cold, looking up at him expectantly. He didn't know exactly what he was going to say until he began speaking.

"It was all just going so fast… the hotel and that weekend, meeting your parents. I just panicked." He paused, his eyes searching hers. "You _know_ me. I'm… I'm a terrible disaster with a posh voice and a bad character. You're the only one who can save me, Bridge. I need you. Without you, twenty years from now I'll be in some seedy bar with some seedy blonde."

She looked to him sceptically. "Well, what about Lara?"

"Oh, over, over," he said without hesitation. "Totally fucking finito. Dumped me. She realised that I hadn't got over you." He stepped closer; he sensed her reserve might be breaking. "I know you're thinking it's just a sex thing, but I promise you… whenever I see that skimpy little skirt on TV… I just close my eyes and listen to all the intelligent things you've said. I was thrilled that little Kurdish bloke was set free. Bridge…" Even closer still, close enough to kiss her, and he intended to. "I missed you a lot."

"Oh God," she muttered, just as he swooped in.

"I'm going now." It was Mark. Bridget pulled away before Daniel could kiss her. Daniel cursed himself for not having drawn the door closed. "Bye."

Bridget rushed back into the house. Mark was slipping into his suit jacket. "Mark, _stay_. We…"

Mark looked hard at Daniel, then back to her. "No, I don't think I will."

Daniel had the upper hand, and he intended to keep it. With a smile, he said, slipping an arm about Bridget's shoulders, "Well, listen, don't leave on my behalf. I think it's time you and I put this past behind us. At least stay for a birthday drink with me and Bridge, huh?"

Daniel knew Mark would refuse, knew the refusal of an olive branch by the man who, as far as Bridget knew, had been wronged would make Mark look like a complete arse in Bridget's eyes. Daniel was not wrong. Mark stared intently at the both of them, then said with a deliberate snub, "Good-bye, Bridget."

Bridget called after him by name, but then turned to face Daniel again, her features set with irritation. "Why are you here?"

"Bridge," he said in response. "I just told you why I'm here." He looked to the door through which Mark had recently departed. "Why was Mark 'Wanker' Darcy here? Oh, bloody hell. Wait a minute. He's back."

Mark was in fact returned. "All right, Cleaver. Outside."

Daniel blinked in his surprise. "I'm sorry? _Outside?_ Uh, should I bring my duelling pistols or my sword?" After a moment's pause, he realised Mark was not joking. "All right. Hang on." He watched Mark descend the stairs again.

As he got to the street, Mark stood there, his eyes fixed on him the moment he appeared from the building. Daniel approached him.

"I should've done this years ago."

"Done what?"

"This."

Mark's fist was flying through the air and connecting with Daniel's own face before Daniel had a chance to think or move. He stumbled back, bringing his hands to his throbbing nose. "Ooh! Fuck!" he cursed, his voice muffled. "Fuck me, that hurt!" He groaned then looked up again, dropping his hands. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"This."

As Mark's second punch landed, Daniel became aware that Bridget and her friends had also descended to the street by their shouts of surprise: "Ohh!"

This, Daniel realised quickly, would work well to his own advantage. The scoundrel beating up on the man he'd wronged would surely play on Bridget's sympathies.

"Ah!" Daniel exclaimed. "Oh, Christ, not again. Ugh!"

He was aware of voices—Tom's, some other people's—as he backed up and begged Mark for mercy: "All right, all right, all right. I give up. I give up. Just give me a moment, all right? Just… Let me get a moment's break here, OK?" He reached behind him for the trash bin he knew was there, his desire to hit Mark momentarily overriding his desire for sympathy from Bridget. He found the handle, grabbed it, and wielded it high, striking Mark on the back of the head, causing him to stumble forward.

"Cheat!" chanted the small crowd. "Cheat!"

The fight after that became a bit of a blur; he landed a few more on Mark (and God, did it feel good to do so), Mark landed a few more on him. The fight wound its way through a Greek restaurant before a grand finale, the two of them exploding through the large plate glass window. As they hit the ground with a shower of glass shards, Daniel felt instantly exhausted.

They each grunted and groaned in pain as they rose to their feet.

"Jesus," said Mark.

Bent over, Daniel made another pained sound. "All right," he said in a wheeze. "All right? Enough."

Mark, equally winded, said, "Enough. Enough." Mark turned to walk away.

Quietly, just loud enough for Mark to hear, but not so loud that the observing Bridget could, Daniel said, "Wanker."

Mark stopped, turned, and threw one final punch, which was a more dramatic response than Daniel had been hoping for; he dropped like a sack of wet laundry. It had not been a debilitating punch, but Daniel feigned unconsciousness. He wanted to regain Bridget's compassion. He heard a loud gasp, heard footsteps run towards him, then stop just near to him. Bridget's voice was very close to him when she spoke.

"What is your problem?"

Clearly this was directed to Mark, who replied, "_My_ problem?"

"Yes!" she said exasperatedly. "You give the impression of being all _moral_ and _noble_ and _normal_ and… _helpful in the kitchen_… but you're just as bad as the rest of them!"

After a pause, Mark replied, "Well, I can see that I've been labouring under a misapprehension. A very, very foolish mistake. Forgive me." His voice betrayed the pain and hurt her exclamation had caused, even as his words seemed very distant and unfeeling.

Daniel heard footsteps retreating, heavier, more deliberate. Mark was walking away. At last Daniel opened his eyes, looked blearily up to Bridget, moaning in pain.

"Let's go back upstairs. Come on," he said with a half-smile. "We belong together, Jones. Me, you, poor little skirt."

She looked very thoughtful. "Right."

He was very serious and sincere when he spoke next, the words closest to his most guarded of feelings, because despite his failings as a man when it came to women, he was sure that if he ever loved a woman, he loved her: If he couldn't make it work with her, he had no chance of ever making it work for the long haul with anyone else.

"Um…" she began, looking away thoughtfully, before looking at him again. "That's not a good enough offer for me." She paused for a moment; he could barely believe his ears. He wondered if what he'd said was not at all what she'd heard. "I'm not willing to gamble my whole life on someone who's… well, _not quite sure_. It's like you said. I'm still looking for something… more _extraordinary_ than that."

As she stood, walked away and retreated back into her building with her friends, he realised he was quite in shock. He had expected her to turn Mark away after all of this. He had not expected her to turn him away, too.

He got to his feet and dug into his pocket for his car keys only to find that they were gone. He patted down every possible pocket, discovering they were all devoid of his keyring. _Shit_, he thought. He scanned his eyes over the ground and did not see them. He approached the restaurant but the looks he was given said louder than words he was not welcome inside.

"I'm sorry," he said, holding his hand up. "I promise I'll make up for this. I'm just looking for my keys. Will you look 'round and see if they're on the carpet, under a table…"

Hesitantly, the host nodded. Daniel paced around outside.

It was amongst the splinters of glass from the window that he saw the glint of silver. He kicked aside the glass with his shoe, picked them up and shook them off. He shouted through the window, holding them aloft again, "I've got 'em."

The only response he got was a dirty look as the waiters swept and cleaned up the remnants of the fight. The host barked, "Give me your name, address and phone number, and I'll keep the police out of this."

"Sure thing, mate." He left his own information, and Mark's too.

As he walked to his car, Daniel considered the evening's events. He had never known Mark to call anyone outside for a fistfight before, not even after Daniel slept with his wife, not in defence of his wife… and yet Mark had done just that over a woman he barely knew but clearly already felt very strongly about. The very notion set him back on his proverbial heels.

Daniel climbed behind the wheel, heard glass fall out of his trouser cuff and hit the pavement as he sat. He chuckled, then began to laugh in an unbridled and uncontrollable manner. The most ridiculous notion had just entered his head: could it be possible that the former friends, both once strong advocates (for different reasons) against the whole notion of romantic love, had not only both fallen for a girl, but for the very same girl?

He put the vehicle into gear and drove away before someone really did call the police and have him dragged away for suspected insanity.

* * *

NBs: 

There has been no curfew at Cambridge since the 1960s.

Daniel's actual words on the street, which always sounded to me like a bit of an insult: "If I can't make it with you… I can't make it with anyone."


	3. Chapter 3

**The Lost Boy**  
Part 3 of 4

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 28,821 (Part 3: 7,934)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, etc.: See Part 1.

* * *

_Part 3_

It was into December that he heard through the social grapevine that Mark was going to be leaving London, taking a position with a law firm in New York City. It was a surprise, yet it made sense all the same. He knew Mark Darcy was capable of a great level of denial, that it was entirely possible that he was either denying himself further pursuit of Bridget, or in complete denial that he felt anything at all for her. Like any other human being, Mark would stay with the familiar and comfortable and try to go for another perfect business merger, just as Daniel always drifted towards the meaningless and fleeting.

Through the way he was being treated like a pariah at work, the way all conversation quieted instantly when he walked into a room, Daniel gathered that something big was coming down the pike for him, and not in a positive way. Lara was also making life very tough for him from her perch in New York, putting unreasonable demands on him, making his deadlines impossible to meet. Clearly she was setting a paper trail to justify the eventual and inevitable firing.

In response, he decided to take the bull by the horns and turn in his resignation at Pemberley Press. With some irony he announced he would be leaving that day and not giving six weeks' notice at all, remembering Bridget had done the very same. He wasn't exactly sure what he'd do, but he had enough cash socked away to keep him comfortable for six months, at least.

Within a very short time, he had his answer. He had not been out of work for a week and was packing his things to go and visit his mother for Christmas when his telephone rang.

"Cleave? That you?"

He furrowed his brow. "Yeah. Who's this?"

"It's Eric. Eric Brand. We were mates at Cambridge."

Daniel racked his brain to put a face to the name.

"We played rugby together," Eric added. "Everyone called me Stumpy."

Daniel's mind suddenly flashed the mental picture of Stumpy Brand: short, stout but surprisingly agile; pale skin, pale hair, ruddy cheeks. "Stumpy, ol' mate," said Daniel, though they were hardly best pals in Cambridge. "To what to I owe the honour?"

"Heard that you stepped down from helming of Pemberley Press," said Stumpy. "Have what I think would be an excellent opportunity for you in television."

Daniel's eyebrows shot up. "What kind of opportunity?"

Eric's voice was all good humour when he spoke. "We here at Cinnamon Productions have this concept for a new travel show, and when pressed to think of a charming bastard to be the guide, you were the first person I thought of. No offense."

Daniel laughed. "None taken. What else have you done? What else might have I heard of?"

"Blind Snog," said Eric. "Sit Up Britain. Ever heard of them?"

Sit Up Britain. Bridget's show. Daniel thought the opportunity couldn't be more serendipitous. Mark would be gone, and if he and Bridget were working together again… he was confident he could ease himself quite deftly back into her life. "Yes," he said, stretching the word out. "Very impressed last month with that Aghani interview coup."

"Ah yes," said Eric; he could hear the smile in his voice, could tell he was still proud of that scoop. "That Jones girl has a lot of promise. So what do you say? Fancy coming down for a screen test? Just a formality, you understand. As far as I'm concerned, the gig's yours for the taking."

"When?"

"As you like," said Eric. "Everyone's off for the holiday already, so we have the run of studios."

Daniel grinned. "Have time this afternoon?"

After arranging a time and getting the location of the studio, he disconnected the phone with a smile. Daniel had no experience in television, but knew he could charm his way into the job.

Indeed, by the time he got to his mother's place, he had secured a presenter's job in television.

………

_After university, Daniel and his mother had begun to grow closer again. Now on her third marriage, this one apparently the happiest of all of them, his mother seemed to have forgotten how much she had once badmouthed relationships in general and men in specific. She asked frequently about whether or not he had a girlfriend. He thought it best not to name names, because they usually changed with great frequency._

_His phone rang early Christmas morning while he was out of the country; he'd decided to embark upon a vacation to the south of France to celebrate having a job with paid vacation time; the job was a position as a copy editor with a major London publishing house. Most of all, he adored continental women._

_"Bon jour, Joyeux Nöel," he said, picking up the phone with a grin. The dark-haired beauty he'd picked up at the local pub smiled back to him from the bed, blew him a kiss and winked._

_"Daniel."_

_It was his mother. She sounded quite upset._

_"Mum," he said, cradling the receiver in both hands. "I only just got up. That's why I didn't call sooner—"_

_"Daniel," she said again. "It's not that. I have some… bad news."_

_"What is it? What's wrong?"_

_"It's your father," she said. "Our split was less than amicable, but… I still loved him because he was your father."_

_"Mother," said Daniel insistently. He felt dizzy._

_She drew in a deep breath, then exhaled; he could hear the air rush past the mouthpiece of her receiver. "He had a heart attack this morning, Daniel. He still had my information in his wallet at next of kin. I'm sorry, darling. He's gone."_

_Daniel was numb, unable to process what she'd said, because surely his father was not dead. There were too many things left unsaid. Maybe she only meant 'gone' like on holiday, like he was._

_"He's dead, Daniel," she went on, as if she could tell he was rationalising her previous words._

_He slumped to the chair beside the telephone._

_"I'm sorry," she said again. "Not what you wanted to hear on Christmas morning."_

_"No," he said, pressing fingers into his eyes. "Not what anyone wants to hear."_

_"How soon will you be able to get back to London? I'm going to need your help with arrangements."_

_"I don't know, Mum," he said. "I'll have to make some calls."_

_He felt a hand on his forearm. He looked up to see his lovely French girl standing there, looking very concerned. He looked back to the telephone._

_"I'm sorry," she said again. "He wasn't always the best to you. He didn't say so enough, but I know he loved you."_

_"Mum," he said, willing tears out of his eyes. "I'll call you when I get back to London."_

_"Are you there with someone? I don't want you to be alone right now."_

_"I'm not alone."_

_"Good. Good." There was a long pause. "I love you, Danny. I hope _I_ tell you enough."_

_"I love you too, Mum."_

_He replaced the receiver, still feeling a little numb._

_"Daniel?" asked a sweet, accented feminine voice. Claire, with her wavy dark hair hanging down over her perky breasts, her warm hazel eyes gazing down upon him. "What is the matter?"_

_He pulled her down to sit upon his lap, cupped her face with his hand, and drew her into a languorous kiss. When he broke from the kiss, he looked deeply into her eyes. "Nothing you can't comfort me through," he said in a low tone._

………

The drive to Farnham was not a terribly long one in terms of time, but in terms of cultural difference to his life in London, it might as well have been half a day away. His mother had settled there soon after marrying her third husband, John, and her sister Elisabeth, Daniel's aunt, had moved there too after her retirement. It was at least peaceful there in Farnham, and his mum kept a room for him as if he were only away for school terms and would be coming to live again any time now on a permanent basis.

"Happy Christmas, Mother," he said, bending to peck her cheek as he entered. He swore she got shorter every time he saw her.

"Happy Christmas, my dear son," she said, placing her hands on his face. "It is good to see you."

"Patty!" It was his aunt. "Who's that?"

"Your wayward nephew," said Patricia with a smile, patting him on the back. "Come on, John is looking forward to seeing you."

Daniel truly liked his stepfather. The man made his mother very happy, which he didn't think any man could be capable of doing after the damage his father had done, but while genial, he personally found the man a bit of a bore. John went on for ages about bowling, about how his league had nearly taken the borough championship, but that blasted Edward had brought on a ringer at the last minute, someone who used to be near-professional, so his team had lost.

Frankly, Daniel tuned out half of what he said, only nodding occasionally when appropriate. He may have been bored stiff, but he didn't want to be rude.

"What about that girl of yours, Daniel?" asked Aunt Elisabeth. "Your mum's told me all about her."

Daniel snapped out of his half-trance to look at her. "What?"

"Bridget," said his mother. "You never tell me anything about those girlfriends of yours, but you spoke so frequently of this Bridget that I thought she must have been something special."

He felt colour flood his face, something he was not at all accustomed to. He had not thought he'd spoken enough of Bridget—least of all by name—to warrant his mother's remembering it. "Oh. Well, unfortunately, we aren't seeing one another any longer."

"Oh, that is too bad," said his mother. "She seemed like a nice girl."

He sipped his coffee. "I do hope to win her back," he said quietly. As he said it, he realised how true it was.

………

He stayed through Boxing Day and drove back that evening after supper, dessert and a few rounds of cards, arriving back to his flat just in time to listen to his answerphone messages (nothing of interest), take a quick shower, then go to bed.

He spent his days on Wednesday and Thursday in meetings with Eric and the other producers—including Richard Finch, who was Bridget's boss—hammering out production schedules for the first few episodes. He learned he would be departing for Spain on New Year's Day, and would be gone for most of January.

Daniel was determined to reach out to Bridget before he left.

Wednesday night he found himself in something of a perplexing situation, one he was also unaccustomed to: butterflies in his stomach as he reached for the telephone. Managing to steel himself sufficiently, he dialled the number, listened to it ring… but no one picked up, not even an answerphone. He rested his finger on the cradle, then dialled again. This time, the answerphone engaged. He opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it, hanging up instead. She was clearly avoiding his calls.

Thursday night was no better. After his dinner with Stumpy, he made a last minute decision to crawl past Bridget's building in his car. If he saw her light on, saw movement, he would park and ring her entryphone. Unfortunately, her flat was completely dark.

He decided to park anyway and wait for a half-hour, an hour tops, to see if she was just late in coming home. She did not appear. Daunted, he engaged the engine and headed for home.

He resolved to give it one more go. It was the Friday night of a long weekend, New Year's weekend, so she was bound to be heading out for a night with her friends. He cared less and less about trying to get her on his own; he just wanted to talk to her, let her know he'd be away, but that he very much wanted to have her in his life again.

It had begun to snow and it was starting to get cold enough for it to stick. Having seen lights and movement in her flat, Daniel indicated right and parked his car in his usual spot around the corner. He disengaged the engine and rose from the car. As he turned left and caught sight of her door, a small car pulled up just in front of the door. Three people emerged, all three of whom he recognised as Bridget's friends from her birthday party. He stayed at the corner, leaning on the building for support. He had seen them, but they were otherwise too busy to have noticed him.

They stood before her bell, obviously talking into the intercom before pulling the door open and all heading inside.

He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking a long draw before letting it out slowly. He considered his next move—her friends could be up there for hours, and he remembered all too well what had happened the last time he had shown up to Bridget's unannounced with her friends present.

He had just about decided to leave when he saw Tom and the blonde woman exit the building. The latter was carrying a small travel case, which she tossed into the back seat of the Mini Cooper before climbing in herself. Daniel furrowed his brows. Were they alone in leaving, or was she going with them somewhere?

The dark-haired woman emerged momentarily, getting behind the wheel of the car. Still no Bridget, though… until she finally did appear, her attention focused on her handbag as if in search of her keys. They shouted to her, and she shouted something in return.

_Dammit_, thought Daniel. He was not going to get his chance.

That mild curse, however, was nothing compared to the words that raced through his head when he saw what happened next:

Bridget whipped around, presumably at the sound of her name. That's when Daniel saw him, Mark, approaching after having rounded the corner from the opposite direction as Daniel had come from; Mark, who had supposedly gone off for good to America; Mark, whose presence would have rendered Daniel speechless had he been talking.

Mark and Bridget conversed briefly, and though it was too far away for Daniel to hear what they were saying, it was quite evident in Mark's posture, the expression on his face, that he was very happy to see her, with the way he was confidently and happily smiling, gazing at her with affection. It was so different from anything he'd seen Mark do, particularly regarding women; there was eagerness and near-tangible yearning in every movement. Mark even tried to kiss her, not once, but three times altogether, which astounded Daniel as the boldest thing he'd ever witnessed Mark do on a personal level. After a cheer by her friends upon attempt number three, Mark stepped up onto the building's stoop, gestured towards the door, and with a smile they went inside.

After a few moments, the Mini started up, sending great puffs of white into the snowy air before revving then rolling off towards parts unknown. In his frustration Daniel banged his fist on the stone wall before returning to his own vehicle and driving off towards his flat.

………

_Daniel Cleaver was in love._

_She was perfect, more perfect than any girl had a right to be: Nora Sutcliffe, the first girl he'd known near his age to suddenly have turned into a woman. As he started to get older—first time he shaved, first unexpected tufts of hair, first embarrassing spontaneous reaction—he become more aware of girls in general, but none of the girls had caught his eye quite like Nora had, with her straight glossy chestnut locks cut into a lovely long bob, hazel eyes fringed by lashes, and creamy skin. It seemed that Nora was sweet on him too, often turning her gaze to him with a similarly sweet smile. _

_Seemingly overnight he heard nothing but his mates (usually in the loo) talking about how this particular girl was a good snogger, and that girl would let you touch her chest through her sweater, and other, more speculative observations about things he himself had no direct knowledge of, and even less practical experience with._

_He was not sure what to do next. Did girls want to know that boys liked them? Were girls thinking about boys in the same way at their age? As the only adult man in his life was his father, he decided to ask for guidance._

_The older man leaned back in his chair and ran his hand over his mouth; Daniel could just see the barest hint of a smirk on the corner of his mouth. "Girls, you say?" he asked. "Well, yeah, I'd say I know a thing or two about girls." He seemed to ponder the concept a little longer. "They're awfully pretty and smell nice, but you really have to be careful," he continued. "You have to be careful about believing anything they say. They'll tell you what you want to hear if it will get them what they want, then sneak around behind your back to get it anyway if you're not quick enough. They play hard to get, but they really want what you want deep down inside." He chuckled. "The ones who say they don't are lying."_

_Daniel screwed up his face. "All of them?"_

_His father nodded. "Especially the ones who look and act the most innocent. Now, this doesn't mean you can just go taking what you want without asking," he said gravely. "It only means that you have to learn the art of asking."_

_Daniel thanked his father then went to the room he stayed in for his visits in his father's flat across town from his mother. He liked his original room much better, but his father had at least made the effort to keep him in comfort and entertained; he wanted for nothing. Stretched back on the bed, he thought about what his father said, thought of Nora, and decided that while perhaps the girls his dad had known had all been like that, Nora was different. She was so lovely, so angelic, that he could not in a million years believe that she had the same kind of thoughts as he had._

_When he returned to his mum's for the new school week, he decided the only way to learn how to talk to girls was to actually talk to them, not in the same way they had as children, but as almost-adults. He strode up to Nora with a big smile and introduced himself. She smiled shyly and said that she knew who he was, and that she was pleased he had come to talk to him because she had felt too embarrassed to do so herself. He asked her if he could walk her home after school, and she pretended to think about it before grinning and agreeing._

_Upon arriving home with a big, stupid smile on his face, his mother turned to him and said, "Well, someone's had a good day." He could only concur. His concentration whilst doing his homework was very scattered._

_Late Saturday afternoon, he went over to a friend's a few houses down; Peter had been a mate since practically infancy, and Daniel had attended his birthday party every year since that time. Daniel's expectations for excitement were not high until he saw that for the first time, his mum had allowed him to invite girls._

_Nora was there._

_They had pizzas and Pepsi, followed by cake and ice cream then presents, then afterwards his mother left them to socialise in the sitting room. It became quite evident that her supervision was not hawk-like, and once Peter had emptied his bottle of Pepsi, he suggested that they play spin the bottle._

_The small group of them—ten at most; Daniel wasn't really counting—sat in a circle on the floor. Peter, being the birthday boy, was the first to spin. It landed on Daniel. Everyone roared with laughter; playfully Daniel leaned forward and puckered up while a snickering Peter reached out and pushed him back by the forehead._

_Daniel got to spin. It landed on Mary, Peter's younger sister. Everyone laughed again. There was nothing to be done about it; he had to kiss her. It was quick and reluctant, but Mary looked like she had won the jackpot, with the stars she had in her eyes. Mary spun and it landed on herself, which garnered giggles; she spun again and it landed on another boy he didn't know that well from school._

_Daniel only wanted it to land on himself then on Nora; he prayed also that if it landed on her first, her spin would land on him._

_What happened next was enough to confirm his belief in God; the bottle did exactly as he'd prayed. It first landed on him; after a kiss from Julie, he spun, and as if in slow motion, he watched that bottle turn until it came to a standstill pointing directly at Nora._

_He looked up at her with a smile, leaned forward as she did the same, and pressed his lips to hers._

_As close as he came to her, he discovered that she smelled even better than he imagined, a sweet floral perfume that lingered in his nose; the kiss seemed to last forever and he would swear that she opened her lips just a little. When he sat back again, he could not stop looking at her. It seemed she couldn't stop looking at him either._

_The game lasted just a little longer—Daniel, having gotten what he wanted, had quickly lost interest in continuing to play—and had just broken up when his mother came in to announce that the party was just about over; anyone who needed to call their parents to get them should call now. He approached Nora and told her that he just lived down the road, and asked if she would like to see where he lived. She agreed._

_It was coming on to summer, so although it was seven in the evening, it was just starting in on twilight; they left Peter's house and walked towards his own. "Here it is," he said._

_"Show me the back garden?" she asked demurely._

_He smiled and walked that way._

_Once they were behind the house she grabbed his hands and kissed him again. It was a smitten thirteen-year-old boy's dream come true. With his heart hammering in his chest, her lips continued to kiss his in delicate pecks, before they lingered… and then, to his surprise, she opened her lips and boldly covered his whole mouth with hers, just like on the telly or in the movies._

_He enjoyed this kind of kissing very much, but it didn't last very long; she suddenly pulled away and said, "I really like you, Daniel."_

_"I like you too," he said._

_"Maybe I can come over again sometime."_

_"Yeah," he said, unable to believe his good fortune. "I'd like that."_

_He was still in seventh heaven the next day when he went over to see Peter, see if he wanted to hang out or play his new video game. When he got to Peter's, he went to let himself in the back door as he had a million times before in his life. This time he was met with a site that broke his heart:_

_Peter and Nora were standing there in each other's embrace, close to the house behind the hedge, so deep into their kiss that neither had any awareness of Daniel's presence._

_Daniel said nothing. He just turned and walked away even as his entire world view shifted. He realised in that instant that maybe his father was right about women, after all. Right about a lot of other things._

_Even though Daniel didn't really blame Peter for what he'd seen—after all, Daniel had never told anyone how he'd felt Nora—he and Peter drifted apart after that day. Nora… he tried to pretend he'd never known._

………

Daniel Cleaver needed help.

He spent about a month working in Spain, and while he had a pleasant enough time, was a natural with the work, and found himself not without female companionship, there was a certain lingering emptiness during all of it. Perhaps it was that he did not, _could_ not know what was happening back in London; more to the point, what was happening with his ex-girlfriend and his ex-best friend.

He dwelled on it more than he thought he should.

Upon arrival back to London, he played back his answerphone messages. His heart leapt when he heard Bridget's voice; did things not work out with Mark? Did she by some miracle want him back?

Upon conclusion of the message, he had the answer to his question.

"Daniel, it's Bridget. I just wanted to say that… you are an utter bastard for telling me what you told me about Mark. I can't believe I bought your stupid lies, any of them!" She'd obviously had a glass or two of wine in her and was a bit on the squiffy side. After a pause, she added, "Bugger. Mark's here. Must go. One final thought: never want to see you again. Am very, very happy now with a man who is everything you are not. Goodbye."

As he pressed delete on the message, he knew it was inevitable that she had learned the truth. Even as he had said those words to her all those months ago—that Mark had been the one to betray him instead of the other way around—it was as if he could not help himself, doing or saying whatever he needed to get her into bed, damn the later consequences. His future played out in his mind, his words to Bridget on her birthday echoing in his head; twenty years from now, he really would be sitting in some dive bar with a drunken floozy at his elbow… and probably a different one every night.

He knew that his version of normal was not normal. He was never going to get a woman in his life like Bridget again, or have a chance in hell of getting Bridget herself back, without some effort on his part.

He did not want the commitment of a psychiatrist—the irony of this rationale did not escape him—but he did find an anonymous meeting group that met on the other side of London. He attended one of their meetings and within minutes of the start of it, he felt conflicted.

He listened to the stories of the others, and thought that there was no way he was in the same league as these self-proclaimed sex addicts; he was not addicted to sex so much as repelled by commitment. He also discovered that quite a few of the attendees were very attractive women, one or two of whom had approached him afterwards for his number. "Oh," said one, "I've changed—I'm chang_ing_—but…" She giggled. "I just can't keep my eyes off of you."

He was flattered, but felt rather like a very expensive bottle of cognac before an alcoholic's lusty gaze. He really was trying to change, but change didn't come fast or easy. He thought maybe he could eventually at least stick to one lover at a time, and continue his regular meetings with the sex addicts group.

Things were going relatively well, and he had stuck to his guns… until he saw Bridget again. She didn't know he was there at first, there in the studio's tape archive, which afforded him an opportunity to watch her unobserved. She looked radiantly happy, a faraway look on her face; she was wearing one of her typical short skirts and had her hair swept up into a little bun.

_Well_, he thought, _there's nothing to it but to talk to her._

He noticed the nearby light switch. With an impish smile, he reached over and flipped it off. He heard her mutter a mild swear word as he went closer to her, saying, "Ever fancied doing it in the dark with a total stranger?"

She found another light switch and flipped it on, looking to him with surprise.

"All right then," he amended. "Perhaps not a total stranger."

Surprise turned to annoyance with a hint of anger. She drew her brows together. "Back off, Cleaver," she said, "or I'll report you to a sexual harassment tribunal. I'm a serious journalist."

His eyes flicked down. "Is that your most serious skirt, Jones?"

As if in reflex she smiled delightedly, pulling out the skirt to show it off and saying, "Oh, do you like it?"

Seeing her so happy, so like she was when they were still together, sent a twinge of aching through his heart. "Aside from looking a little on the thin side…"

As if remembering she'd vowed she never wanted to see him again, she pursed her lips, let go of the edge of skirt, and gathered up her things. "I have to get back to work. Why are you even here, anyway?"

"Got an offer I couldn't refuse," he said, walking with her out of the video archive. "I work here now."

"In television?" she asked in amazement. "I thought you hated television."

"I hate _watching_ television," he clarified. "Being on it is—" His eye was caught by an attractive young woman passing by him in the opposite direction, and reflexively he said "Hello there" to her before continuing, "—an entirely different proposition."

She said nothing, stepping up her pace a little, just as Jeremy Paxman passed by, saying, "Oh, Daniel, thought the Madrid piece was outstanding. Full of insights, really original."

"Oh, cheers, Jeremy," he said in reply; "Thanks, mate. I really appreciate that. Ned's worked really hard on that one." As they passed and Jeremy got out of range, he muttered, "Tosser." To Bridget he asked, the lightness of his tone belying how desperately he wanted know, "Talking of which, how is Mark Darcy? You still, you know…"

"Yes, I am," she said defensively. "And I intend to be for a very, very long time."

"Good. Excellent," he said, covering for his disappointment. "You know what a fan I am of any woman married to Mark Darcy."

She stopped in her tracks and looked at him with an icy glare. "That's not funny."

"But seriously though, Jones, I'm speaking purely unselfishly here," he continued. "I worry about you. You do know that it's an acknowledged fact that most lawyers' wives die of boredom?"

"And what about you?" she retorted. "Still shagging anything that moves?"

"As a matter of fact, no, no. No shagging whatsoever," he said candidly. "I'm in shag therapy. It turns out I have a problem. I go to meetings. I talk about my feelings. I hug people who smell."

Her expression changed from indignant to sceptical. "I don't believe you."

He turned to look her in the eye, and said very seriously. "I'm trying to be a better man, Bridge. So that the next time a better woman comes along, I won't make a pig's ear of it."

Bridget looked a little shell-shocked; her silence was covered by the sound of a passing woman reminding Daniel about a meeting.

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks," said Daniel. Directing his attention back to Bridget, he said, studying her, "Very good hair, Jones. By the way, um, you're not free for dinner tonight, are you?"

Whatever his compliment had done to soften her features was undone at that query, and she said stiffly, "No, I'm not. I'm going to the Law Council dinner. It's a very important evening." With that she turned on her heel and walked away, presumably towards her desk. He watched her arse as she retreated—it had always been eye-catching to him—but felt more melancholy than anything. To think of Bridget swinging so far to the other side of the spectrum of men and dating Mark Darcy—of her sleeping with him, of him touching her and potentially infecting her with his own special brand of rigor mortis—made him crazy. It also didn't help that, even though Daniel had deserved it, she had been the one of the only women he'd been with ever to end things with him, rather than vice-versa.

He swore, though, that the resolve she had so drunkenly declared on his answerphone had weakened.

After the third anonymous sex-addicts meeting in two weeks with his growing little female fan club, he acquiesced and went out with the most persistent of them for coffee. They didn't stay at the coffee shop for long, not even making it as far as his flat before they were at it like rabbits. She was an ideal fit for him; she seemed almost psychic when it came to what it was he liked her to do, and he took her home and let her do it some more.

She was gorgeous; thin, lean, with breasts that were slightly larger than a handful; in other words, pretty much physically perfect. She had blonde hair, green eyes and rosy skin, and she was just absolutely delightful to look at, to watch, as he drove into her again and again.

Later that evening, he woke to find she'd gone, but had left him a note with her phone number on it and a great big drawing of a smiley face.

If he had been going to a psychiatrist, they surely would have pointed out to him that this new girl was but a substitute for the woman he was really thinking about. He would have told the psychiatrist to fuck off even though there was a good chance they would be right.

………

_Despite the double-cross, Nora's kiss had awakened something in Daniel that couldn't be quieted. He found himself trying, failing, and trying again to talk to girls; with each attempt he learned a little something. By the time he was fourteen he'd had his share of kissing with a variety of girls, but had barely done more than run his fingers over a fabric-covered chest. It wasn't until he hit age sixteen that the girls became a bit more willing to succumb to his sweet talk, as if a switch had been flipped on. He was a fast learner, quickly figuring out what girls wanted to hear and how they wanted to be touched. His father had been right again: it was all a matter of learning how to ask for what you wanted. The further he went, the further he wanted to go, but he hadn't yet gone all the way._

_ That didn't happen until just before he turned seventeen. People who knew Daniel later in life probably would have been surprised to learn it wasn't earlier. He had, however, had his eye on a particular girl for that milestone, so he was willing to be patient and wait until the time was right._

_She was a year below him, but nearly as tall as he was, a little shy and introverted, with waist-length nut brown hair, green eyes, and full hips and breasts. She was lovely without seeming to be aware that she was… and she also happened to be Nora Sutcliffe's bespectacled younger sister, Iris. She was the one girl he was attracted to who had not yet fallen for his various charms; he suspected that her sister had warned her about him. Her resistance made him want her all the more._

_It was a school social at end of spring term when Daniel made his approach. He had watched her for a good portion of the evening, watched her growing more and more despondent as the hours passed and she spent the majority of it alone with no one to dance with or talk to. He came up to her with two glasses of punch, both of which he had spiked with whisky from a flask he'd stolen from his father._

_"Hey," he said casually._

_Her eyes flashed up with excitement until she saw it was Daniel; her enthusiasm then deflated. "Oh. Hi."_

_"Thought you might like some punch."_

_She regarded him cynically, but took the glass. "Thanks." She took a sip, then coughed. "Ugh. What'd you put in this?"_

_"Something to get you to relax and smile." He drank from his own cup, saw her lip curl up despite her efforts to restrain it. "Don't worry. I added a little to my own. These things are boring as arse without it."_

_Reluctantly she lifted her cup to her lips._

_"The first hit is the worst," he added._

_She tipped her glass up, took a longer sip, then looked to him. "Yeah. That wasn't so bad."_

_He smiled and drank some more. After a moment, he said, "I'm not so bad either, you know."_

_He swore he could read her mind: _That's not what I've heard.

_"Is there anything I could say or do to change your mind?" he added._

_"Well." She smirked a little, and unwillingly at that. "You're the only one here who's bothered to talk to me all night," she said. "I suppose that counts for something."_

_"I'll take what I can get," said Daniel, leaning back in his chair, watching her tap her foot in time to the up-tempo pop music. "Do you want to dance?"_

_Iris laughed out loud. "Like you'd really want to dance with me when you've got tons of prettier girls to choose from."_

_"I never joke about dancing," he said. "And I'm not as blind as Lois Lane—I can see the real you behind your specs." He paused, fixing her with intense eyes. "I really do like what I see."_

_She looked at him through the tops of her lenses, clearly flattered by his praise. "I don't suppose a single dance would hurt."_

_He smiled, rising to his feet, then extending his hand to her. As she took his hand and rose, her nose even with his with her low heels, the music switched to a slow song. He raised an eyebrow. "A dance is a dance, fast or slow," he said. "I'm game if you are."_

_He saw a blush race over her skin. "Okay."_

_They faced one another. She put her hands on his shoulders; he put his on her waist. Without words they began to dance at the same time as other young couples crowded in around them in the darkened room._

_She smelled exceptionally nice, even better than Nora had._

_His fingers tightened on her waist, and then slowly, he slipped his hand around her back while at the same time he took her right hand in his left one, holding it close. "Felt like I was dancing with my granny," he said quietly. He heard her giggle. "You're pretty good. Are you sure you don't dance more?"_

_"Quite sure," she said._

_He rested his cheek against hers, brought his hand higher up on her back, urging her closer to him. Her sweater was cashmere, very soft; his fingers slid easily along it. He hummed low in his throat, felt her breath on his cheek, felt her fingers tighten on his shoulder. He turned his head and pressed his lips to her skin as his hand travelled down, his fingers just traversing the curve of her arse._

_"Daniel," she said; her voice attempted to be sharp and scolding, but it came out somewhat strangled instead._

_"What, Iris?" he asked._

_She turned her head. "People are watching."_

_"No one gives a damn about what you and I are doing," he said, "which is, incidentally, just dancing."_

_"A bit fresh for 'just dancing'," she said._

_He raised his hand to her waist again. "I apologise." He then nuzzled his lips into her hair. He heard her catch her breath but did not at all object._

_After some moments like this, swaying with her pressed up to him as he placed little kisses into the hair at her temple, the song ended; he backed away, his hand still clasping hers. "Thank you for the dance, Iris."_

_She looked a bit discombobulated. "You're w-welcome."_

_He gave her a rakish grin, then released her hand. He headed for the exit. He was wagering on the fact that she'd follow him._

_When he heard his name called just behind him in a faint feminine voice, he thought maybe he'd missed his calling as a gambler._

_He turned, managing a look of surprise and nonchalance. "Iris?"_

_She hand her hands folded in front of her. She clearly hadn't thought through what she was going to say once she caught up to him. "I… I'm leaving and was wondering if you might walk me home."_

_He smiled. "Sure."_

_They walked out into the twilit evening. He looked over at her and saw that she was looking at him, at which she turned her eyes away embarrassedly._

_As they approached the corner to turn towards her house, she said, "Wait."_

_He looked to her again._

_"Do you or don't you want to go home?"_

_"I… don't."_

_He regarded her, and could only think that his target had been acquired and locked. "How about we… just go for a walk instead?"_

_She smiled. "Sure."_

_ They turned in the opposite direction and towards the small public park. The air was turning a little chilly, and she rubbed her arms a little. He reached out and put his arm around her, rubbing his hand vigorously on her upper arm. "Is that better?" he asked. "If I had a jacket I'd give it to you."_

_"Yes, that's better," she said quietly. "I'm sorry I've been so unkind to you. And thanks for dancing with me. I enjoyed that very much."_

_"All in the past," he said, "And anytime."_

_They continued walking down the path and into a circle of trees; he still had his arm around her, and to his surprise he felt her arm slip around his waist._

_They soon developed a comfortable rhythm, walking leisurely as the trees grew a bit thicker and the sky grew darker. He looked to her; her pale skin appeared to glow in the moonlight. "I'm enjoying this very much," he said._

_"Yeah," she said. "Me too."_

_He leaned in and kissed her on the temple; her head snapped to look at him, and she stopped walking. He did too. For a moment he thought she was going to tell him off again for being fresh, but instead she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his._

_He had thought it might be safe to try to kiss her, but never expected she would make the first bold move. He suspected that of the two of them, he had more experience, and so he wrapped his arms around her and parted his lips to take hers, to slip his tongue into her mouth._

_She ohhed in surprise, but kept admirable pace with him, returning each kiss with equal enthusiasm, leaning into him. The feel of her lovely body against his was having a definite effect on him._

_When his hands migrated down over her arse this time, she did not protest, nor did she say a word when his hands traversed the lower edge of her shirt to drag along the skin of her back, then forward and up to take a satin-clad breast in his hand. She made a soft sound but still did not protest._

_"God, Iris," he said hotly into her ear. "You're just so fucking beautiful, I can't keep my hands off of you."_

_"My sister said—" she gasped._

_"Your sister's just jealous that I'd rather have you than her."_

_With that she seemed to completely let go of her doubts; she allowed him to pull her down to the soft grass, lift her skirt and tug down her pants. He'd taken more than just the whisky from his father in anticipation of what he had considered to be the inevitable; he slipped on the protection with unsure fingers, because the last thing he needed was to be burdened with a baby from a girl he only wanted sex with._

_Daniel was many things, but he was not stupid._

_Then he was on her, her legs to either side of him, and after a moment of fumbling he made the connection for which he'd been so desirous. It overwhelmed him almost immediately, and as he moved up and down, thrusting into her—all of it coming more naturally than he would have ever dreamed—she made sounds that he could not quite decide were from pleasure or pain. He covered his mouth with hers to quiet her cries._

_Perhaps unsurprisingly, it didn't take long for him to come, and with a great sigh he rolled over into the cool grass, panting for air, grinning like a madman as he ran his fingers through his hair. Bloody fantastic. He decided on the spot that getting off with a girl was pretty much the best thing ever._

_He looked over to Iris, who also was lying there, but she looked more shell-shocked than blissful, her hands at her sides._

_"Hey," he said. She turned her head to him; noticed then that her cheeks were wet with tears. He pushed himself up on his elbow. "What is it?" _

_"That…" she began slowly, her voice tremulous, "…wasn't what I was expecting."_

_He turned back towards her, took off her glasses and brushed the tears from her face. She smiled a little as he did so. Had he done something wrong? "Are you all right?" he asked gently._

_She did not respond at first, and when she did she only nodded her head. "Yeah," she said. "It just, um, hurt a little."_

_"I'm sorry," he said. He brought his hand down over her to smooth down her hair, then her shirt and her skirt, before reaching down to take care of himself and to zip up his trousers. _

_He sat up, then helped her to sit up too. Clumsily she restored her glasses to her face then looked at him again. "It's all right," she said softly, looking more like herself, if a little dishevelled with bits of foliage in her hair. "It wasn't really your fault. That was… my first time."_

_He grasped her hand and squeezed, continuing to study her face. He had no intention of revealing that it was his first time, too. "Come on," he said. "Your teeth are chattering. I should walk you home."_

_They got to their feet. He brushed grassy detritus out of her hair. As they began to walk, he put his arm around her again in an effort to keep her warm. They did not speak. Their walk out of the park lacked all of the exciting promise of the walk leading in. His mind was instead turning over what had happened, and what was happening now. With the mystery of sex now resolved to his satisfaction—particularly the mystery of sex with Iris—he found that despite his newly formed glowing opinion of the act itself, her appeal had dwindled considerably. _

_He saw her in exams the following week. She beamed at him. In return he offered a stiff smile and glanced away, but not before catching the expression of hurt and disappointment blooming on her face._

_It wasn't as if he had ever promised her anything._

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**The Lost Boy**  
Part 4 of 4

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 28,821 (Part 4: 8,438)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, etc.: See Part 1.

Thanks, all, who have been along for the ride. Big thanks to C. as always, and to my roommate, who betaed for spelling, grammar, etc.

* * *

_Part 4_

Surprisingly, despite working for the same production company in rather close quarters, Daniel did not often run into Bridget. On those occasions when they passed in the hall or shared a lift with other people, she was stonily silent and looked at imaginary cobwebs in the highest corners rather than lock gazes with him.

It was not as if he was lacking in female attention; quite the opposite, he had women phoning, emailing and writing letters on a scale that even he (in his career as a womaniser) had never seen before. To say his television show had garnered him a bit of a following was an understatement, and he had to admit that despite his efforts to change his wicked ways, he really liked it. It didn't mean that he didn't still think about the one who'd gotten away… or rather, he'd driven away.

As March dawned, he realised that she seemed a little less bubbly, a little more introspective. She still did not look at or speak to him, but he could not help but wonder what the matter was. He did not want to ask. His biggest fear was that Mark's dour, stern ways had finally crushed her spirit.

An enlightening comment at lunch set him straight.

"We're thinking of adding a second Guide," said Eric as he pushed a couple of chips into his mouth. Daniel feared for the man's finger, so enthusiastic was he eating his lunch. They were dining with Richard Finch, and Eric was referring to the show that Daniel hosted, The Smooth Guide.

"Oh?" asked Daniel. "Any particular reason? Am I not up to snuff?"

His friend laughed. "Not at all," he said. "We've been quite pleased with your ratings. No, what we'd like to do is balance the scales and boost our male viewership."

Daniel raised a brow. "Bringing on a lady Guide. I like it. Anyone in mind?"

"You said you were familiar with Sit Up Britain, right?" asked Eric between ravenous bites, pointing to Finch. "What do you think of Bridget Jones?"

_Think she might just be the best shag I ever had_ was the thought that popped unbidden into his head, but he said, "I think she'd make a fine choice—as you know, Richard, I'm quite fond of her despite her chucking me—but I… hear she has a boyfriend who would be disinclined to let her go off on her own with me like that."

"Bah," said Eric with a laugh.

"She doesn't have a boyfriend any longer," said Richard with rather more glee than the news warranted. "They've split up."

At this, Daniel raised both brows. "Split up?"

Richard nodded. "Yup. She says they split, wouldn't say why, but I suspect at how upset she's been that it's because he was seeing another woman. I tell you, would you cheat on something that cute?"

Daniel smiled wanly, not wanting to admit he already had. "Not even I could have carried on indefinitely with someone who thinks Iran is David Bowie's wife, and doesn't know where Germany actually is," he said jauntily, his defences kicking in when he was otherwise at a loss for words.

This caused both of them to howl with laughter; he imagined how she might react when this proclamation got back to her, and he smirked. He suddenly found himself wanting to be in earshot to hear it.

"We've already got the green light from the boys upstairs to approach her with this, just wanted to ensure you were on board first," Eric said. "Would not do to make the star of my show cranky."

"Appreciate it, mate." After a moment, he added, "Do you mind if I attend the meeting?"

"Not at all."

He decided to take a seat at the desk in the room and turn around so that he was hidden from view; he wanted to hear what she had to say about him, what she really thought about him, without her realising he was there, at least at first. As expected, she was not at all pleased at the suggestion, was not at all kind to him, and was incensed at the insinuation that she didn't know where Germany was. When she realised Daniel was there, she got very flustered and left the meeting, insisting she would not do it.

He had to admit that on some level, her words stung. After all, she had hinted once she loved him. He followed her out of the office and to her desk, where he caught her looking at her screen and at what he suspected a map of Europe. "Oh, come on, Jones," he said. "it was just a silly joke."

"Not a very funny one," she said, scowling at him.

"Go on then," he dared.

"What?" she asked.

"Where is it? Where's Germany?"

Her eyes flitted down. Ha. He'd been right. "Next to France."

"And?"

She looked down once more. "And also Belgium… Poland. And it has a sea coast."

He smirked. "Which sea?"

He saw the reflection on her face of the screen changing colour; quite possibly that same silly aquarium screensaver she always liked had just kicked in. "Oh, sod it," he said. Her posture eased. "Now, look, I think we should have a serious talk about Finch's suggestion. I am going to Thailand, Jones. Wouldn't you like to be my little Girl Guide? Hmm?"

She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips.

………

_"I might have to go to Prague," Daniel said lazily, reclining in bed. "If I do, it's going to be long and dull. Maybe you can come with me."_

_She turned over to look at him. "Prague?"_

_"Yes. Prague. You know."_

_She brought her brows together. "Yes," she said, rather unconvincingly._

_He smirked, a suspicion forming. "You're familiar with Prague?"_

_"Of course," she said defensively. "Lovely country."_

_He laughed. "It's not a country, Bridge. It's a city. A Czech city." At her blank look, he continued. "Near to Germany. You do know where Germany is, don't you?"_

_"Of course I do!" she said huffily. "It's in eastern Europe."_

_At this he laughed out loud._

_"Well, honestly," she said with a pout. "It's not like I would be required to list which countries I would be flying over in order to get a plane ticket to Prague, would I?"_

_"What if we were doing a road tour of Europe?" he asked. "Wouldn't you want to know if we were near to, say—" He plucked a country name at random. "—Iran?"_

_"What does she have to do with it?"_

_Daniel blinked in disbelief. "What in the name of arse are you talking about?"_

_"Iran," she said. "You know. David Bowie's wife."_

_At that he let out gales of laughter. "Oh, Jones," he said, reaching for her. "I wish I could believe you were teasing me."_

_"What?" she asked insistently. "What?!"_

_He kissed her. "Nothing. Nothing at all."_

………

It was totally dark save for the stray light coming in from the air hostess station, and the pervasive thrumming of jet engines provided a level of white noise that Daniel supposed would have made it easier to sleep if he wasn't so bloody distracted. He wasn't sure what series of miracles had to have occurred to put Bridget on the plane with him to Thailand, that she had agreed at all to go to Thailand and be his Girl Guide, but he was thankful for them. He could not resist lifting his sleep mask to look at her, her own eyes covered with a mask, her skin highlighted a weird blue from those remote lights. He slipped it back over his eyes and vowed to try to sleep, to try not to think about her.

He had seen the blonde from the sex-addicts meetings a few more times for a quick shag before dropping her. She didn't seen overly distraught. Now he was sporadically seeing another woman from the meetings, a brunette with intense dark eyes who was not afraid to accommodate his strangest kinks. She smirked when he asked if they could role-play, and if he could call her Bridget.

At least it wasn't a different girl every night.

It was so good to be so near Bridget, just as much as it tore him up inside. He did love her, but he knew that love was no good for him, and it would only end in pain for both of them. He also knew that if anyone could change him, though, it would be her.

He learned soon after landing that she would not be staying in the same hotel that he was; like some kind of dour-faced chaperone, her blonde friend Sharon had come with her, and they were staying together in huts on the beach. Not having her near, however, did make it easier for him to drown his disappointment with a private full body-to-body massage session—in other words, sex—in his room without risk of her discovering it.

Their days filming together were long but fun; it was so good to see her smiling and laughing (even as they shared some of the area's questionable gastronomic delicacies), and she was such a natural in front of the camera. The chill she had reserved for him had begun to thaw, and after filming wrapped, she even agreed to a boat ride to Ko Panyi with him.

The air was as calm and sultry as it always seemed to be in Thailand, even with the sun lowering ever closer to the horizon. The water was perfect and blue and the sky was shimmering as it darkened. As the boat glided soundlessly over the water, the air blowing her hair back, Daniel pointed to the small island. "Now, that is Ko Panyi, which is the setting for a very famous Thai poem which I think you'd like very much, Jones." She looked at him doubtfully. "It's all about a badly-behaved prince who finds true love with a beautiful and, as it happens, very slightly overweight princess."

She was clearly unconvinced. "You're teasing me."

He was the picture of seriousness. "I never tease about poetry. 'O, Suvarnamali!'" he quoted dramatically. "'Why can you not see that I adore you? Why do you avoid and scorn me? If you cast me off and leave me, how shall I live another day?'" She was clearly stunned. Racking it up as a victory, he said almost smugly, "And you thought all I knew about Thailand was pussies and Ping-Pong balls."

She lifted her chin and looked out over the water. As the minutes passed, her expression became wistful; her posture, melancholy.

"Have dinner with me?" he asked suddenly.

She did not answer him right away, which actually gave him hope, at least until she actually spoke. "No," she said. She looked to him once more. "I think we should go back to shore now."

He nodded. He could be patient if he needed to be.

………

The following day was a day off before they were to return to England. He had not yet seen nor heard from Bridget as the noon hour came and went, he decided to walk down to her little hut. He did not expect to find her waist-deep in the ocean, flailing her arms around as if doing an interpretive dance. He called out her name. She paused momentarily as if expecting him to be right beside her, and she turned around, searching for him. He called for her again.

She finally saw him and she smiled broadly, her big floppy hat wobbling as she tilted her head back, her cheeks ruddy from the sun.

"Jones, what the hell are you doing?" he shouted.

"You are lovely colours! Here. Here I am." She held out her arms, wandering closer to the shore. She was also making absolutely no sense, and was frankly acting like she'd already had a few glasses of wine in her.

"I think you're completely off your face. Hey!" She fell forward, too far for him to catch her. She dropped down to the sand, apparently none the worse for wear, before turning over onto her back and making angels in the sand. "Hang on."

"I'm an angel," she said disconnectedly. "Lovely, glorious sand. Oh, I want to be naked. Naked as a baby."

He pushed away thoughts of her lovely naked form—it was not the time nor place—and reached down to help her up. "Come on, then, angel. Up you get."

He walked with his arm around her waist; it was like trying to manoeuver and guide a bundle of wet noodles. He had no idea what she'd done to get herself into this state.

"Where's your hut, Bridge?"

"Just there, and there, and there," she said, pointing randomly down the beach.

"Bit early to be drinking, isn't it?" he asked.

"No, no," she slurred. "Best omelette ever, better even than Mark's, with all kinds of bits of wonderful, magical mushrooms."

He did not quite understand the reference to Darcy, but the magic mushroom reference certainly clarified things to him. He'd tried one of the area's famous omelettes on a previous trip to Thailand, and vowed never to have anything harder than liquor again. "Come on, Jones. You need a bit of a lie down until you return to Earth."

She giggled.

He then saw Sharon sitting on the steps of one of the huts, crying uncontrollably, and steered his wet little noodle towards her. "Sharon, is this your hut?"

"I want to die," Sharon sobbed, clutching onto a horrible bowl that appeared to be made from a mummified snake. "My face is melting."

He glanced into the hut and saw what he knew to be Bridget's overnight bag. "Here we are," he said, sitting her down on one of the beds; she landed as if she were a sack of laundry. She laid back, her hat falling back, and she laughed again, amused by something he could not see. He smoothed her skirt down over her leg.

He found a sheet of paper and a pencil and wrote her a note: _When you're yourself again, come to the dock near my hotel. I can't wait to hear all about how you've been scared straight._ He signed his name and put the note on her bedside table.

He sat at the hotel bar and had a couple of drinks—perhaps an hour had passed, two at most—when he saw her approaching the dock unsurely. He was a little surprised that she'd come at all, and quickly he paid his bar tab then went down to meet her. "Jones," he said.

She looked down. "Daniel."

"Dinner. I insist. Very lovely new little place out on that island, highly recommended." He pointed. "Come on. We'll have one of these little boats take us over." He led her to the dock, and before he knew it, they were skimming over the water and landing on the dock on the opposite shore.

They were seated and had ordered when he regarded her seriously.

"So, how are you feeling?"

She glanced down. "Completely embarrassed."

"Don't be. You're charming on drugs. In future, just say yes."

With a reserved smile, she looked at him again. "Do you know, I never really understood why you wanted to go out with me. It seemed so unlikely."

He was surprised at the sudden veering-off from small talk into serious discussion, but worked hard not to let it show. "Come on, Jones. For God's sake. You're sexy. You make me laugh. At you, of course, not with you," he did not hesitate to add in jest. She laughed lightly. "And you were, incidentally, the best shag I ever had."

"The best?" she asked, looking suspicious.

"Aside from Simon Reade in the fifth form locker room, yeah," he joked.

She smirked again, then looked up at him through her lashes. "Suppose I said you were pretty good, too?"

"'Pretty good?'" he asked in mock surprise. "Was I better than Mark Darcy? By the way, is it true he always says, 'I'm sorry, but I think I need to come'?"

Her mouth dropped open, and her voice was all astonishment as she asked, "Who told you that?"

"It's common knowledge, isn't it? Come on, Jones," he said; with this new level of candour, he decided to ask, as he could not in truth believe the story Finch had told him, "Who gave who the hoof? And why?"

She didn't respond right away, and that thoughtful, bittersweet expression swept over her face again. "Let's just say that we suffer from a fatal incompatibility."

Daniel figured he had pushed that particular envelope far enough, and decided to change the subject, his voice turning solemn again. "I have missed you, Jones. I don't suppose there's any circumstances in which you would ever consider thinking about trusting me again?"

"Absolutely not," she said without hesitation. Their meals were brought to them. "So," she said brightly. "I think the filming went well, didn't you? Well, except for that horrible bit of food I had to choke down."

"Are you saying you preferred the locusts?"

She laughed. "Only marginally," she said, her smile restored, as she ate her noodle dish.

With conversation thusly redirected within safer bounds, they continued eating, partaking in delicious regional cocktails and even splurging in dessert. She was smiling contentedly, a far cry from her previous woeful state, as they took the boat back to the peninsula.

"Well, I suppose I'll be getting back to my little hut now. Thank you very much, Daniel. I had a nice time." She glanced up into the twilit sky. "Is that the Big Dipper or the little one? I can never tell them apart."

Bridget must have been spending a lot of time watching American telly or movies to be calling the Plough by that name, perhaps not doing much else than mindless viewing in the evenings, or so he hoped. "Definitely the big one. You can't see the little one this close to the Equator."

She turned to him, incredulous. "Oh, please. You don't know about astronomy."

"I most certainly do. Passion of mine," he said. "You know, Jones, if stargazing is something that interests you, it has to be said that the view from my balcony is quite outstanding. Perhaps you'd like to come up and have a bit of a look."

"I don't think so," she said reluctantly, seeming to sense it was a line to get her upstairs.

He reached or her hand and tugged her forward. "Come on," he said earnestly. "Best behaviour. Promise I won't bite."

She allowed herself to be led up to his room. It was a good sign; previous to the trip, she'd barely given him the time of day. She seemed appropriately impressed with his room as they passed through it and onto the balcony.

"All right, Professor Cleaver. Let's have a little astronomy lesson."

He pointed up and out into the sky, bending nearer to her to level his eyes with hers. He didn't know much about the stars in actual fact, but was willing to say or do whatever it took to have her under them. "See over there? A long way off. That's it, over there. That is Orion's belt. And, there, right next to that is a very sexy little constellation called Ursa's Maiden. You see, she's being very naughty and trying to undo Orion's belt."

He heard her chuckle under her breath. "All right. What about that one?" she asked, pointing in another direction. He didn't think he was imagining it that she was leaning a little bit into him; it felt so good to have her against him again.

"Yes, well, that is a very, very famous star, um, right next to, of course, um…" His stamina for faking knowledge of the night skies was fading fast, and coupled with the distraction of the nearness of her, he started to stumble a bit. "…some other fucking star that's been there for years and years without anyone giving a toss. Seen one star, seen the lot of them, that's what I say, Jones." She turned and their eyes met again. "Different with girls, though. Some girls are special."

"Are they?"

"I think so." He pulled her into his arms, his lips hovering just over hers. As he asked, he truly wished to know: "What is this special power you hold over me, Jones?"

He leaned in to kiss her, but she pulled back. "What about your therapy?" she asked, concerned.

He murmured in response: "I think you might be it."

With that her reserve seemed to break; he kissed her ravenously, and she let him. It was wonderful to have his arms around her once more, to smell the faded scent of her perfume or whatever it was that smelled so familiar and undeniably like her. He walked her back towards the bed until they fell upon the mattress. "Oh, God, I hope you're wearing those giant panties. Please." He could hear her chuckling. "Please be wearing the giant panties. Please." He raised the hem of her skirt to see her granny-style pants, and he smiled, gasping with exaggerated pleasure. "Oh, my old friends, ohhh. Daddy's home!" He bent to place kisses on her abdomen. "Did you miss me? Because Daddy missed you. Yes, he did."

Before she even spoke he knew something was wrong with the way she froze up under his ministrations. "Wait. Sorry." He pulled back to look at her, could see the conflict playing on her face. "Can I just have a minute? Just a minute."

He backed away from her and rose to sit on the bed as she went into the loo. Clearly she was having doubts, but not doubts so large that she was running from his room. He wondered if she could still possibly be thinking about Mark, if she could possibly still have feelings for him.

The door opened, surprising him. He got to his feet and went near to her. "Everything all right?"

She looked a bit skittish, and smiled unconvincingly. "Yeah, sure. Just a bit nervous. I mean, you see, if I…" Her voice faltered. "If I stay with you tonight, uh, it's definitely the end of something, um, _important_ with someone. Which has probably ended already, but…"

She had been thinking of Mark, after all. He strengthened his resolve to make her forget. Tenderly he took her in his arms again, held her to him reassuringly. They were so close, _so close_; he did not want anything to spoil his getting her into bed again or ruining his chances of bringing her back into his life on a permanent basis, despite everything of which he had tried to convince himself regarding love, relationships and commitment. "Bridge, Bridge, Bridge, Bridge. Doesn't everyone deserve a second chance? Hmm?"

She chuckled quietly. He began placing kisses on her neck. Unexpectedly she said, "Except Hitler."

He stopped momentarily, inwardly amused at her comment; he couldn't think of any other woman he'd ever known that might mention Hitler during an intimate moment. "Well, he was very, very, _very_ naughty," he said throatily, punctuating his 'very's with more kisses to her soft skin.

With perhaps the worst possible timing in the whole of the world, there was a knock at the door.

………

_He'd had a feeling it'd be a sure thing._

_They'd been dancing around each other for weeks at the office, resorting to flirting via instant messaging, and coy looks (and bottom patting) in the elevator. Tonight, during the launch of a book he privately referred to as 'possibly the worst book ever published' he thought he might steal her away to a late supper… and possibly more._

_He'd seen her talking with Mark Darcy, which put a little panic in his heart—How did they know each other? How close were they?—but that was quickly quieted when Mark locked eyes with his own and their conversation seemed to end._

_After an embarrassing public speaking turn, Bridget was veritably ripe for the picking, standing on her own, looking humiliated and morose, much like his lovely Iris all those years ago. He sidled up to her and purred in her ear, demanding that she come to dinner with him. Without words she acquiesced._

_He caught Mark looking at the two of them. What on earth was his interest in her, anyway?_

_During the course of dinner he did learn how well Bridget knew Mark—'he's no friend of mine', she declared—and having ascertained she did not know of his and Mark's history, he offered a story to explain their obvious animosity, that Mark had swooped in and stolen away Daniel's fiancée. It was just close enough to the truth to be believable, and ironic in that Daniel had never actually in his life been engaged._

_After dinner he was able to persuade her to come home with him with a lengthy, passionate kiss. He hadn't expected kissing her to be quite as enjoyable as it was; she gave as good as she got, which made the promise of sex even more appealing._

_As soon as they got into his flat, they were on one another; he carried her in, her legs around his waist, and laid her down on the floor, peeling off her boots, reaching to divest her of her pantyhose… that's when he saw them._

_In his surprise he exclaimed, "Fuck me, absolutely enormous panties."_

_"Jesus," she breathed out, "fuck."_

_He hastened to assure her, "No, no, don't apologise. I like them. Hello, Mummy." She chuckled. He bent to kiss her then reared back again. "I'm sorry, I have to have another look. They're too good to be true."_

_Her initial horror was definitely waning in her assurance that he was not at all turned off by the presence of granny panties. "No," she protested._

_He continued, "There's nothing to be embarrassed about. I'm wearing something quite similar myself. Here, I'll show you."_

_With that he got down to the very serious business of shagging her; he did not know what he had been expecting, but what he'd gotten was far more. She was curvy and responsive, again giving as good as she got. He never would have expected she might be the best sex of his life just from looking at her. As cute as she was, he did not exactly anticipate a total sex kitten lurking within those ridiculously short skirts._

_He had her once on the living room floor, once upstairs before they could fully undress, then once more after undressing completely. They were at it well into the wee hours despite the next day being a working day, and when he fell off to sleep, it was the sleep of the dead._

_His alarm went off at its usual time. He realised as he reached to switch it off that he was still holding her in his arms. He moved to hit the snooze. She did not wake; fleetingly he wondered what her own alarm must have sounded like, air raid sirens, fire station bells or similar. She looked like an angel in her repose, which was rather a troubling thought for him to have. It was also troubling that he was quite enjoying holding her like this. The women who shared his bed were often not the sort that stayed until morning._

_He bent to press his lips to her temple, disbelieving he was capable of such a tender gesture even as he was doing it, and instead of waking she turned over and embraced him more tightly. She was wonderfully warm and the lingering scent of her perfume immediately turned him on. He woke her with an ardent kiss and, unable to stop himself, pulled her into another round of steaming hot sex._

_At its conclusion, he teasingly growled into her ear, "No wonder you're always bloody late to work."_

………

Whisky at sunrise was never a good idea. As the sun lightened the morning sky Daniel realised it was an especially bad idea after spending a night drinking whisky and smoking cigarettes, coupled with a lengthy flight back to the UK ahead of him. It was hard not to wallow in self-pity and regret when the truth was hard to deny: Daniel was never going to learn, and he was never going to be able to change… and he had just blown it again with the only girl he had ever sincerely loved.

Subconsciously he must have wanted to get caught; that's the only explanation he could come up with for why he would have neglected to cancel his ten-thirty appointment with one of the local girls. From what the girl was wearing beneath her coat (a small black bikini), it was impossible to try to explain her away as being nothing more than a masseuse. Understandably furious and hurt at being lied to, Bridget had stormed out.

He deserved it.

He decided to keep the appointment, because at the very least he could have physical satisfaction to get his mind off of Bridget. Partway into his massage, however, he made the awkward discovery that his masseuse was actually a masseur. Politely he dismissed the young man, assuring he would still get paid, feeling that somehow, he deserved this too.

Exhaling a plume of smoke, he looked to his watch and sighed. They'd be there to fetch him for the airport in a little under two hours. Time to shower and pack his things up.

The shower and shave helped to sober and perk him a little, as did the crisp, clean clothes. He still felt like utter hell, and hoped to be able to sleep for most of the plane ride. _Alone in first class with Mrs Dalloway_, he thought with just a hint of melancholy.

His car was right on time, whisking him away towards Bangkok airport. It took all of his will to stay awake and focused during the relatively short drive. After checking his bag, he headed towards his gate. He could see a bit of a commotion ahead: airport security and their overzealous dogs had a woman surrounded. As he got closer, he realised the woman was Bridget. As he watched her being led away to a private room, he could not help but smirk. If anyone was going to get pulled aside for a random search, it would be her, probably for trying to bring back more than her share of sarongs and shoes.

As hoped, he did sleep for the majority of the long flight, and when he woke, he felt much refreshed, if a little hungover. He asked for a couple of headache tablets and some water, and within short order the pain had lessened. He thought about Bridget back in coach, wondered if even the lure of first class could overcome her disgust of him. He did want to apologise and try to explain, even if she never did want to speak to him again, so he called over the steward again and asked him to go and fetch her for him.

"I'm sorry, sir," said the steward upon his return. "Passenger Jones never boarded."

He laughed, though felt the first pangs of cold dread. "What do you mean, never boarded? I saw her in the terminal."

"She's not on board, sir," he reiterated. "That's all I know."

He considered asking the steward to bring her friend Sharon forward, but he didn't know her full name, and didn't think she would know anything more than he did, as he had seen her boarding the plane before he had. "Thank you for trying, Alan. Much appreciated."

Alan smiled. "My pleasure."

"If you don't mind," he said, "I'd like some coffee."

"Certainly. And dinner will be served soon."

"Fantastic." He pulled his book out and began to read, but even the shorter amount of time he was awake for this flight (compared to the last) seemed longer for her absence.

………

_No one had been happier about his acceptance to Cambridge than his parents, who, despite their ongoing feud with each other, had come together to move heaven and earth itself to make attending a reality. Arriving on the grounds, surrounded by so much history, he felt the responsibility of what was expected of him settle on his shoulders like a mantle._

_Like everything else he did, he would excel. He did not have a doubt of that. He had never had difficulty with schoolwork, he made friends quickly, and his horizons regarding women were broadened exponentially. Within just a few weeks he had attracted a girlfriend, or at least, someone he regularly took out and had sex with. Unfortunately, he had made enemies of his older classmates by managing to snag this particular girl. It was not something he wasn't used to, and it meant very little to him to have earned their dislike._

_He did notice one fellow student around the college with outdated bushy hair and a quiet demeanour. He didn't know the chap's name, but he never saw the man without an open book under his nose, never saw him with anyone but study partners. He did not know what drew him to this utter bookworm, but he did know that all work and no play made Jack a dull boy, and he felt pity for anyone who got to university age without having shagged a girl._

_As he sat reading through a very thick tome in the common area, Daniel approached him. The first thing Daniel noticed was the shoes. They were dreadful, two-toned wingtips, stark black and white, which did not go at all with the trousers and button-down shirt he wore._

_He looked up to Daniel suddenly. "Yes?"_

_Daniel noticed the book he was reading was some sort of introduction to legal procedure. "Just the thing for a little light Saturday afternoon reading, eh?" He held out his hand. "Thought I would introduce myself. I'm Daniel. Daniel Cleaver."_

_His new acquaintance looked up at him as if he were mad. Reluctantly he took the proffered hand for a shake. "Mark Darcy." He narrowed his eyes. "I've heard about you."_

_"Probably all true," quipped Daniel with his most charming smile._

_"What can I help you with?" asked Mark impatiently._

_"I think the question is, what can I help you with?" parried Daniel as he took a seat at the table. "One does not need to spend one's entire Cambridge career nose deep in a book. One needs, for example, time in front of a telly watching a Newcastle United match."_

_Mention of football unexpectedly piqued Mark's interest. "Do you support Newcastle U?"_

_"I do. And watching a match alone is a bit too depressing for words. Meant to be a group effort." Daniel glanced down. "One thing though. Those shoes entering my room might cause a rip in the space-time continuum."_

_Mark looked to his shoes and said defensively, "What's wrong with my shoes?"_

_Daniel sighed dramatically, still grinning. "We have a lot of work to do, Mark."_

_After quite a few matches on that and subsequent weekends, the shell of Mark's taciturn demeanour cracked, and Mark turned out to be fairly witty and very intelligent. Daniel hadn't met another mate who was quite as skilled at verbal debate as Mark was, and Daniel quite enjoyed their spirited discussions._

_A few weeks into their friendship, Daniel broached the haircut issue. Mark was surprisingly not offended, and was in fact quite receptive to the idea. Upon their return to campus post-barber visit, Daniel pointed out the women who were giving him second looks. Mark dismissed it as Daniel's imagination, but seemed to be secretly pleased at the notion._

_The next step was a double date. Daniel quite looked forward to it, especially since he thought his girl's shyer best friend would be perfect for Mark's date. He turned out to be correct and they hit it off quite splendidly._

_Daniel had expected a charity case; he'd found a real friend._

………

Upon landing at Heathrow, Daniel learned how very wrong he'd been about Bridget's detainment. Splashed on all of the newspapers and television screens was the story of how Sit Up Britain's cute little blonde presenter had been snagged for alleged drug smuggling in Bangkok Airport. He felt sick to his stomach, mostly because he did not know what on earth he could do to help.

As the days passed and more information came out, he came to realise that even if there were something he could do to help, he doubted his help would be welcomed, because it soon came to light who had taken up the fight for her: Mark Darcy himself. It was difficult to tell if it was because of the man's noble nature, or because he still loved her, but either way, Daniel felt he was the last person Mark wanted to see.

Until things could be straightened out—because it was pretty obvious to everyone that Bridget was not at all involved in the seedy underground world of drug muling—they decided to keep The Smooth Guide close to home. He was pretty okay with that, as he wanted very much to know Bridget's fate, and he felt news about her was better obtained on home soil.

Relatively speaking, he did not have to wait long for an update, particularly working for the same production company as Sit Up Britain. It was being kept hush-hush in the public arena so as not to potentially cause the whole situation to blow up in everyone's faces, but from what Daniel heard around the office, Bridget would be freed because Mark and his team were able to corral the real culprit, someone called Jed.

In staying close to home, the producers decided on a piece on the many galleries of London; they felt that Londoners would appreciate a piece on something in their own backyard with the summer kicking into full gear. Their first stop was the Serpentine, at which there was a gallery showing of John Currin's paintings. Daniel had always been very fond of the painter's talents and sensibilities, as well as this show's subject matter: gorgeous, curvaceous, mostly nude women.

As the camera rolled, Daniel strolled through the gallery as he spoke. "If you want something smooth to put on your wall, you could do a lot worse than John Currin. He is just about the only contemporary painter who can actually paint. He's usually got something interesting and allegorical going on. Plus, of course, there is a very high perv quotient—"

Another voice cut through the silence.

"Did you see her?"

To Daniel's astonishment, it was Mark Darcy, and he was obviously here about her, about Bridget. The director called cut.

"Sorry, everyone, sorry. It's my stalker," he said, addressing his crew. Turning to Mark, he said, "Fuck off, Darcy. Some people have jobs to do, you know."

Undeterred, Mark continued, "Did you see her, surrounded by police? Dogs, handcuffs, that sort of thing?"

"Oh, come on," he scoffed. "She's a big girl. She can take care of herself."

He had rarely seen Mark so serious or such fury simmering beneath the cool exterior. "I'm only going to ask you one more time. Did you see her?"

"What do you mean, you're only going to ask me one more time?" he asked cockily. "You haven't got your wig on now, dear."

"I'll take that as a yes."

Daniel felt quite as if he were being interrogated in a courtroom. Resignedly, he said, "Yes, I did see her. I don't know; I thought she was smuggling seashells or mangoes or something."

Mark looked thoughtful. "Right. Right, good." After a moment, he asked with complete solemnity, "Will you step outside, please?"

Daniel could not believe his ears. Being called out by Mark Darcy not once but twice in a lifetime? He chuckled. "Oh, no, it's not possible. Darcy, do you have any idea what century we actually live in?"

Mark was not kidding. "Are you going to step outside or am I going to have to drag you?"

Daniel bristled and dared Mark with, "I think you're gonna have to drag me."

Mark stepped closer; Daniel stepped back. Before he knew it, he was being chased out of the gallery, and run he did, a crazed human rights lawyer hot on his heels. Daniel headed out into a crowd of people, which did not deter Mark at all. After circling the fountain, Mark caught up to Daniel at last, and after clumsily sparring, Daniel realised that Mark was doing his level best to push him into the water.

"I'm not going in the sodding water. Fuck off!"

Mark pushed harder. "No, you're going in, Cleaver."

Clutching Mark's suit, Daniel said, "If I'm going in, you're coming with me, you smug bastard."

With that they both toppled over into the water.

Daniel surfaced to find Mark was already on his feet, water pouring down him. Having had the wind knocked out of him, Daniel gasped, "Oh my God."

Mark hissed back, "Get up."

As Daniel rose, his clothing heavy and dripping with water, he said cockily, "Well, what are you gonna do now? Drown me in sixteen inches of water?"

Mark retorted, "Yes, good idea." He then lunged forward.

It was pretty ridiculous to be chased around the fountain in front of the Serpentine Gallery, particularly as his camera crew had followed him out and were filming this humiliation. With the heat of the day and the weight of his wet clothes, Daniel realised he could not keep this up for long, and Mark would surely catch him and punch him but good just as he had out in the street in front of Bridget's building. While his life did not exactly flash before his eyes as he ran, he did have something of an epiphany:

Mark was fighting for Bridget yet again; for him to do so, he must have had strong feelings for her, stronger feelings than Daniel ever imagined Mark capable of having for a woman. Although his friendship with Mark had never recovered from their falling-out, Daniel thought of their shared past fondly, and because of that shared past he did want Mark to be happy when all was said and done. Daniel was also well aware that he'd pretty much had his last chance with Bridget, yet he wanted Bridget to be happy, too; clearly the level of turmoil she'd experienced that night in his room in Thailand meant she must have had feelings for Mark, too, quite possibly even loved him.

He knew then what he had to do.

"Fuck! Stop, stop!" he said, holding his arm out, panting for air. "Listen, listen, _listen_… okay, I left her at the airport. I shouldn't have done that. But she bumped into Jed herself and I didn't fucking well seduce her, all right?"

Mark looked absolutely stunned. "You didn't?"

Affecting a nonchalant tone, he said, "There's something wrong with her. She's gone all frigid. I spent the night with a gorgeous Thai girl, who in fact turned out to be a gorgeous Thai boy. Satisfied?"

While not entirely the truth, it had served its purpose. Mark had calmed considerably, and knew now that she had not slept with him. "Yes. Thank you." Mark then climbed up and out of the fountain. Much to his dismay, they still had an audience.

Daniel, however, could not resist a parting shot; it would not, after all, do to show too much weakness or sentimentality: "You know what, mate? If you're so obsessed with Bridget Jones, why don't you just marry her? 'Cause then she'd _definitely_ shag me."

Mark turned around, his eyes flashing angrily, before he hopped back into the fountain and lunged after Daniel. Mark was as determined to catch him as Daniel was determined not to be drowned in sixteen inches of water. With that thought in mind, Daniel jumped up and out of the fountain and ran as fast as his sodden legs could carry him.

Some distance from the fountain, Daniel panted back over his shoulder, still running, "I was kidding. Just kidding. Truce, mate. Truce."

Mark was heaving for air, too. As he slowed down then stopped moving, Daniel did too. Mark bent over, and as he braced himself on his own upper legs, he nodded. "Right."

Without another word, they both hauled themselves over to sit on a park bench in the shade, water pouring off of their clothing and puddling under the seat. As they both sucked in lungfuls of air and attempted to regain their breath, Daniel couldn't help but think that Mark's very expensive suit was a lost cause. His own leather jacket probably was too.

It felt a little odd to be sitting there next to Mark in silence. Daniel decided to take a chance and cast his gaze in Mark's direction. The man was lost in thought.

"You never slept with another woman, did you?" Daniel asked, even though he was sure he already knew the answer.

Startled, Mark looked at him. "What?"

"You love her, don't you?"

Mark's face flushed pink. "I don't see how either are any of your business."

"Can't see you doing it, mate," he said. "Can't see you cheating on your girlfriend. On Bridget." Mark stared at him mutely, his expression of surprise confirming the rumours Daniel had heard about the cause of their breakup. "Incidentally, even I could tell you were completely in love with her."

This comment made Mark clearly angry. "You're a fine one to lecture me on love, Cleaver."

"Fair enough," Daniel said. "But we both know Bridge is special. She made me realise there was something missing in my life, as content with it as I thought I was."

Mark snorted in disbelief. "Don't tell me the great Lothario thinks he's in love."

Mark's comment was clearly aimed to wound, and ordinarily Daniel would have offered a flippant reply to deflect any suspicion that what Mark had said was too close to the truth for comfort. This time, though, Daniel made no such comment. The absence of such a response said volumes to his former friend.

They were quiet again, sitting in silence, sitting together for longer than they had since before their friendship had blown apart. At last, Daniel said, "We were wrong."

"What are you talking about?" Mark said listlessly. Were he not so exhausted and water-soaked, he probably would have already stormed off.

"Your insistence once that love was like some kind of myth propagated by mass media, or at the very least, a rare creature indeed."

Mark turned and turned his most intense gaze on Daniel. "And how exactly were you wrong?"

"By realising _you_ were wrong." Daniel returned the gaze equally. "Sex doesn't replace intimacy or affection or a good laugh with someone you really care about." As he spoke them, he could hardly believe the words that were coming out of his own mouth. "She wants nothing to do with me, and I know I can't commit. But you… you could make her happy," continued Daniel solemnly, "and she'll make you happy, too."

Mark did not say anything else, and Daniel took advantage of his apparent speechlessness to get up and walk away.

Daniel was many things, but he was not stupid. Pursuing a woman who was in love with another man was extremely stupid. He knew when to walk away.

………

_It was a big decision for a boy to make._

_His mother and father sat him down on the sofa and told him that in the autumn, when he started year seven and would be changing schools, he could continue living with his mother and attend one public school, or he could live with his father and attend another. Both were good schools, of that there was no question, but the one nearer to his father had a better program for those interested in the literary arts, which was something that appealed to him immensely._

_Looking from his mum to his dad, he had to admit that he was awfully tempted by his father's offer. His father made more money than he used to, and though he supported his wife and son, he lived in a slightly more desirable part of town (in that the football team was far better). On the weekends he stayed with his father, Daniel got whatever he wanted. They ate pizza on Friday night and went to the pub on Saturday night; they often went to the cinema, football matches or for long drives together. His father treated him like an adult, not a child, even going so far as telling him he didn't need to have a bedtime anymore. They were more like mates then father and son. _

_On the other hand, his mum was usually too broke or too busy to do any of these things; she worked as a teacher whilst he was in school, was tired in the evenings, and was often too busy keeping house on the weekend to do anything fun with Daniel. She also insisted her son be in bed by nine-thirty._

_It seemed like an easy choice, given all of the facts as well as the desires of eleven year old boys. Looking at his mother, though, looking at the glossy cast of her blue eyes, the way her lower lip was trembling, told him that she could bear anything in the world, even an unfaithful husband, more than she could bear being without her son._

_He loved his mother too much to do that to her._

_After a long, thoughtful pause—during which he was advised from both parents that he didn't have to give a reason right away, yet they still sat there expectantly—he said very earnestly, "Hm. Think I will stay here with Mum. All my stuff's here anyway."_

_At that he heard a strangled sound in her throat; he turned his eyes to his mother, and gave her a wink that his father could not possibly have seen. His father did not seem overly devastated. He actually looked a little relieved, truth be told._

_That weekend, his mother took him to the cinema, brought him out for pizza, and advised him with a bright smile that it might just be okay for him to start staying up until ten in the evening now._

_As the years passed and Daniel looked back upon his formative years, despite the rows he'd had with his mum, despite the unkind things she'd said about his dad, despite the occasional lean times when her new husband was out of work… he knew that, regardless of what had appealed most to that eleven year old boy, what he most had wanted at the time, he had ultimately made the right choice._

………

Good news always travelled fast. By the speed with which the rumour circulating around the office had travelled, Daniel deduced that Mark had taken the advice he'd gotten in the fountain. Daniel only smiled a little to himself. Maybe there was hope for him, after all.

_The end._

Links: 

Indebted to _EOR_, Chapter 9 [1 July] for Bridget's response about why it was not necessary to know where Germany actually was.

Star Stories from Thailand

The constellation Ursa Major, the Great Bear, otherwise called The Big Dipper. "In the British Isles this pattern is known as the Plough. It is also occasionally referred to as the Butcher's Cleaver in northern England." Ha ha ha.

How English school grades work, for people like me who grew up in the US.


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